Akin to Murder

by Alanna Knight

  She had planned it carefully. There was no direct road except via Duddingston and that would not take her past the Faros’ cottage. The carriage was to be left on the new Dalkeith Road and she set off on foot unaccompanied by her maid, her progress watched with some interest by the builders who, in awe of gentry, did not whistle, although they were curious about what she was doing and where she was heading at nine o’clock in the morning, fondly imagining that the upper classes let the day get well aired before they ventured out.

  The weather was with her. It was a far from pleasant day, with swift-moving, dark clouds glowering down from the head of Arthur’s Seat, and as the cottage drew near with its welcoming smoke rising from the chimney, the first drops of rain obligingly fell.

  Her parasol was quite inadequate and it would make sense, she thought, for her to seek shelter. She walked up the garden path and knocked on the door.

  Lizzie and Charlie, who had quickly retreated into his box bed, had noted her approach in a state of some anxiety, with no idea who this well-dressed, upper-class lady was wandering about on the hill with a parasol that was already dripping water.

  Lizzie opened the door, curtseyed. ‘Can I help you?’

  Without waiting to be asked, Honor stepped inside and handed her the parasol. ‘I wish to speak to DS Faro on a matter of extreme urgency.’

  ‘I am sorry, he is not at home, madam. You will find him at the police station.’ This was a bitter blow. ‘At this hour?’

  ‘Yes, madam. He starts at eight o clock,’ said Lizzie and as the lady glared down at the ruined parasol and waited, she realised that refreshment was expected and some shelter from the rain, which they both considered with some deliberation.

  ‘It is just a passing shower,’ said Lizzie weakly.

  ‘Um,’ was the lady’s comment. Lizzie gave one quick backward glance into the parlour and saw that Charlie was safe. ‘Perhaps you would like—’ she made a movement towards the room, at which Honor swept past her with a murmur that might have been thanks.

  Both were regarding each other, Lizzie taking in the appearance of this grand lady, the elegant clothes, the beautiful shoes and that expensive perfume and wondering who on earth this could be and what was her business with Jeremy. She was being equally considered under narrowed eyes by the laird of Belmuir, a pretty, simple peasant, well-spoken, perhaps an upper servant, certainly not worthy of Jeremy Faro. The room, simply furnished but clean and tidy, reminded her of her housekeeper’s apartment.

  Then, as Lizzie walked across to attend to the kettle she saw that she was not just plump but pregnant. Poor Jeremy, what a life—

  As Lizzie set cups on the table, the sun suddenly shone through the window, lighting up that glorious mane of golden hair, certainly a woman’s crowning glory and never achieved by the laird of Belmuir, even with the daily application of curling tongs by her maid.

  ‘The rain has stopped, I see.’ And Honor stood up and with a gesture declined the offer of tea. ‘You are very kind, Mrs Faro, but I really must go on my way. I have much that requires my attention.’

  Lizzie didn’t feel disappointment, just considerable relief. There was always the danger of Charlie having a bout of coughing or sneezing behind those closed doors. However, she was curious to know the name of this grand lady.

  ‘Who shall I say called, madam?’

  Honor had already reached the door. Seizing the dripping parasol and giving it an angry shake, she looked round briefly. ‘Belmuir. But I shall see him in Edinburgh.’

  As she disappeared down the path, Charlie looked over Lizzie’s shoulder and said: ‘I heard all that. Who was she, that lady with the loud voice?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Lizzie shook her head. ‘Something to do with the police, obviously.’

  Charlie shuddered. ‘And dangerous. Ealasaid, every time we get some unexpected caller, the danger becomes worse – not only for me, for all of us.’

  ‘We will manage somehow.’

  He shook his head and put his arm around her. ‘We cannot go on like this forever.’

  ‘It is only until Jeremy finds out the truth,’ she said firmly. ‘And he will, never you fear, and all will be well again.’

  All being well again was a dream beyond Charlie’s imaginings. He had little faith in Jeremy ever finding the real killer. It seemed a hopeless task.

  ‘We had a visitor, looking for you, Jeremy,’ said Lizzie when he arrived home that evening, quite unable to restrain her curiosity and keen to know who was the lady with the odd name who had given them a panic-stricken half-hour in her search for Mr Faro.

  ‘Said she was called Belmuir.’

  ‘A lady with the voice of authority, very loud,’ Charlie put in before he could reply. ‘These surprise visits – we can’t go on like this. Someone will catch us out and recognise me sooner or later.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll never forget how scared I was, sure I’d be discovered when your inspector came. Talking to Ealasaid outside, I was terrified in case she had to ask him in.’ He gave her a fond glance. ‘She managed to keep him out, though. But I cannot subject you both indefinitely to this terrible danger. The last thing we need is a tide of visitors.’

  Ignoring that, for she heard it from her brother many times each day, Lizzie looked hard at Jeremy and persisted: ‘Who was the lady?’

  ‘The laird of Belmuir,’ he said shortly, with a calmness he was far from feeling. The presence of Honor Belmuir made him decidedly uncomfortable, especially that she seemed to have tracked him down to his cottage.

  ‘Lairds are men,’ said Lizzie firmly.

  Faro made an impatient gesture, he hadn’t time to go into all that explanation and said: ‘They had a burglary in their town house at Moray Place that I’ve been investigating and she must have wanted to know the progress.’

  ‘Then why come here? Surely the police station—’ Lizzie began and Faro, pretending not to hear, asked: ‘Where’s Ma?’

  ‘She didn’t come today, sent a message that Mrs Brook had invited her to go along to the Woman’s Guild meeting at the church.’

  For which mercy, Faro silently thanked God. Had she been present when Belmuir called, her curiosity would have been boundless, her questions unanswerable. Muttering that he was glad she had found a new friend, with a sigh of relief he turned to Charlie.

  ‘I know we’re no further on finding Annie’s killer, but I’ve just had another idea. As a last resort, I’d like to go examine the croft where you lived. Where it all happened.’

  Lizzie yawned. She was very tired, this pregnancy as well as stress was draining much of her usual energy and by eight o’clock at night she needed her bed. Kissing them both goodnight, she said: ‘I’ll leave you to it. And I’ll say a prayer for you.’

  When the door closed on her, Charlie was looking very doubtful and Faro said: ‘Often in what we call domestic murder cases, the answer seems so obvious that no one bothers to look for any clues. They’ve got the killer, case closed.’

  Charlie shook his head, tried to look as if he thought going to the croft was a good idea. And failed. Whatever the outcome, he felt certain that he was a doomed man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Inspector Gosse’s foul mood was unconnected with the weather next morning when Faro arrived at the office. For a moment Faro thought his worst fears had been realised, that Gosse had suspicions from his visit to the cottage. Indeed, Gosse’s anger was related to that short visit, but mainly because he had seen Lizzie taking in the washed clothes, the sun touching her golden curls, her bare arms … true she was less slender than he remembered, a certain thickness about the waist, but that did not matter. Gosse enjoyed a good armful in a woman but it was not until he got closer that he had realised the roundness signified that she was pregnant. This was the final straw, that his hated sergeant should have all the luck, a lovely wife and probably a son, the first of many.

  He was a little put off that she did not seem anxious to meet him again, a more sensitive man would
have put this down to her being distinctly scared – but what could be the reason for that? He lingered, making casual comments about the weather, hoping that the building workers with their all-day hammering were not disturbing her and also hoping that the estate house was as far as demolition went and that her lovely cottage would be untouched. He added, with a significant sigh and a glance at the table, that he had been out all day investigating the accident in the tunnel.

  Lizzie ignored the silent plea, desperate to get rid of him, this in no small measure due to the fact that Charlie McLaw was only yards away from the man who was hunting him down. And so Gosse ended with a polite bow and departed, his resentment towards Faro increased considerably by the fact that Lizzie had failed to offer him a cup of tea, depriving him of the chance to exercise his charismatic charm upon her, even indulge in a little flirtation in the absence of her husband; and he determined to make Faro’s life even more uncomfortable for his wife’s lack of hospitality.

  He pointed to a pile of papers. ‘More sightings of McLaw and claims for that damned reward for your investigation.’

  Gosse was realising, at last and too late, the effects that fifty pounds reward – a small fortune – was having on the population and Faro said: ‘It is proving to be a waste of time, sir. Don’t you think we should ignore it? McLaw is probably out of the country by now.’

  Gosse wheeled round, glaring at him and thumping his fists on the desk, Faro stepped back hastily, fearing that the inspector was about to attack him as he shouted:

  ‘Ignore it, should we? When did you presume to know better than your superiors what is the law and what is a waste of time and how they should deal with a wanted man on the loose and dangerous? Every day makes it more likely that he will claim another victim.’

  ‘We have no evidence, so far. The only questionable death of the woman found in the tunnel, you said had been explained to your satisfaction. That it was an accident.’

  ‘All evidence from the railway would substantiate that,’ Gosse growled.

  Faro did not think so. This was another case that he was trying to solve, the details of which Gosse was ignorant, all leading back to the poorhouse at Belmuir, which he was increasingly certain also had a link with the murder of Annie McLaw, the reason for McLaw’s conviction, which, Faro believed, was a miscarriage of justice. If only he could prove it.

  Gosse’s hand trembled with rage as he pointed to the papers. ‘Now get on with your work, Faro, and stop wasting any more time in arguing. I am certain that McLaw will be taken, and by my efforts with or without that fifty-pound reward. Even if the claims are useless, each person must be contacted and interviewed – we cannot have the population believing that their police force is not a hundred per cent efficient.’

  As Faro left the office he pocketed the papers with their new claims, which he didn’t bother to read. Charlie McLaw would probably be still asleep in the cottage, his breakfast being prepared by his devoted sister, so he would seize this opportunity of visiting McLaw’s shack on the edge of the Belmuir estate and carry out a careful search of the scene of the crime, as he had done with Vince at the bookshop.

  In their haste to arrest McLaw it was possible there had been no search for clues. Then he would return to the office, hand the papers to the constable at reception to send the usual polite reply that the sightings had been investigated and the results were negative, but thanking them for their efforts.

  Faro wished he could have had McLaw to accompany him on the search of the croft. When they discussed it last night he even considered for a wild moment methods of taking him. But that was too foolhardy, especially as local people who knew him in his beardless days, even without the poster, would most likely recognise him.

  Boarding the train, he was recognised by the railway guard as becoming quite a regular traveller. The guard’s name was Jim and, as he was inclined to be friendly, Faro decided to put a few more questions his way, the conversation instigated by Jim enquiring about that poor lass who had died in the tunnel and hoping Faro would notice that efforts had been made by the railway to get rid of the debris therein, with a penalty fine for those who continued to dispose of their refuse there.

  ‘Seems no time at all, since we got rid of the last notice,’ Jim smiled. ‘That one was for when we still had horses and were forbidden to stop the train in order to feed them. A long time ago, that was; steam made such a difference, changed all our lives.’

  Faro said: ‘I was somewhat surprised that the lady was travelling alone that day. The poorhouse are not inclined to let their residents out alone on a journey into Edinburgh.’ He paused to see the effect this was having, but Jim merely stared out of the window, regarding the passing scenery as though it might have something to offer. ‘On a previous occasion she was running to catch the train; it had just started and I asked the guard to stop it. She was very keen to escape from the man who was struggling to restrain her.’

  ‘Is that so, sir? It wasn’t me,’ said Jim hurriedly. ‘Although we have strict orders about the loonies who might be making a break for it.’

  ‘Was she travelling with someone the day of her accident?’ Faro asked again and received the same answer.

  ‘It isn’t likely she would have fallen out, sir, if there had been someone with her. And I don’t recall anyone else getting on the train at the workhouse halt that day. Oh, excuse me, sir.’ They had come to the first halt on the line and Jim made his escape, very thankfully, Faro decided. He was almost sure that for some reason Jim or even the railway company did not want to become involved in what could be safely dismissed as an unfortunate accident caused by one of their jammed windows, which had now been repaired.

  On this bright, sunny day, he would have relished this train journey had he not been so preoccupied, and as the train gathered steam, he took out his notebook, checked the deep pockets of his greatcoat for candles, needed for searching dark corners, and most of all his magnifying glass. This was a matter of some amusement to his colleagues, but an essential for revealing minute details invisible to the naked eye. Replacing them alongside Charlie’s map of directions to the croft, he remembered his request for a description of Annie, which was included in the notes.

  ‘She was a great beauty,’ Charlie had said. ‘We had a painting done by an artist who told her that a hundred years ago when courtesans to the royal courts came from humble backgrounds she would have done very well. She loved that, always felt that she deserved a better life than had been her lot.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I fell in love with her at first sight, but I don’t honestly know why she chose to marry me.’

  Faro left the train at the Belmuir halt and with the poorhouse and the castle clearly visible he made his way across the wooded estate grounds. Charlie’s map had few landmarks, and soon feeling lost, he was fighting his way through overgrown gorse bushes, which caught at his clothes. Someone before him had not been so lucky – he detached a fragment of fine cloth with a button attached, torn from some garment.

  At last a small clearing and a tiny, ivy-covered croft emerged. From the great chopping block and piles of wood that still remained, this had been the woodcutter’s cottage. It looked sad and desolate, swamped by the enormous trees, which cut out most of the sunlight, its walls overwhelmed by the ivy that threatened to block out the windows. Charlie had laughed when asked about a key. ‘We never had one, if it ever existed then the Belmuirs would have it. Besides, folk like us never lock our doors. What have we to steal?’

  He pushed open the door; there were two rooms, he had been told, a kitchen and, through it, the bedroom. He walked through to the bedroom, a bleak place, indeed, with little in it. The once handsome half-poster bed, possibly inherited from the castle at some clearance or discarded by its previous owner due to a change of fashion, seemed out of place in such humble surroundings. There was a shabby, well-worn mattress from which sheets and blankets had been removed.

  Lighting a candle and crawling beneath, his magnifying glass r
evealed no bloodstains on the floorboards, all pointing to his theory that Annie had not been killed in that bed. The room’s only other furniture was a mirrored dressing table with a few drawers, all empty, and a wardrobe. At first glance this was also empty, but in its depths there was a large picture frame, the portrait of Annie.

  He sighed and replaced it. He doubted Charlie would want this painful reminder, which confirmed that she had been a beauty. A final, minute search of the floor and then into the kitchen. Untidy, unclean, it offered little but dust. In the poor light from the window he set two candles into the wall sconces and set to work searching cupboards, which were empty. Kneeling, magnifying glass in hand, he began searching inch by inch the wooden floor surrounding the table and near the kitchen sink.

  Then his first find. The minute remains of two once bloody footprints, the first barefoot and small and undoubtedly female, the second, a man’s shoe or boot, faded and invisible to the naked eye. But as he looked further, there were traces in between the surrounding floorboards, dark stains that were undoubtedly dried blood and those led into the bedroom.

  He sat back on his heels. Annie had been killed in the kitchen and her body dragged back into the bedroom and placed beside Charlie’s unconscious body.

  His theory had been right but it was small comfort. Although this was evidence, it was doubtful that the kitchen premises had been searched at the time of the murder. The killer had already been decided upon. It was an open and shut case, just another domestic murder with the husband swearing that he was innocent.

  Evidence, but where did it lead him? Certainly, now one thing he knew about the killer was that from the footprint, it had been a fine shoe, not a policeman’s issue boot – those he knew well – nor a working man’s nailed boot. Annie’s last client had not been a local man, and that stretched the search into the impossible.

  Suddenly the door opened behind him. A dog rushed at him, a man with a rifle silhouetted in the doorway.