Clara was pleased that her maid should enjoy freedom when her presence was not needed. Unlike many of the other wives in her circle, she liked to feel that her views about domestic servants were quite advanced: she was well aware that Lizzie, who Clara appreciated as such a treasure, in the service of another family might well have had her freedom restricted to one afternoon a week, expected to sit with the mending box, sewing on buttons, darning socks and repairing hems just in case the bell rang for her.
Clara sat mute through afternoon tea conversations with neighbours’ wives, whose constant moans were about the unreliability of servants who wanted so much these days; she found their talk of nannies, children, and occasionally recipes, rather dull, since she never set foot in the kitchen if it could be avoided. Some of the more enlightened wives occasionally raised the risky topic of a book or a scandal, and only then did she listen a bit more eagerly as her insatiable curiosity also contained a clause for the possible use of a ripe piece of scandal to be stored away for future use.
At the theatre, which tended to be noisy as the enthusiastic audience were invited to join in the chorus of the popular songs, Faro patiently awaited the interval. Fortunately Lizzie spotted three of her acquaintances, and after an introduction and some admiring glances in Faro’s direction, which Lizzie noted not with jealousy but with pride, he bowed and having provided the giggling young ladies with refreshments, declined the invitation to join them and returned to talk to the manager. Albert Migley was also stage manager, middle-aged, stout and balding, a commanding and arrogant figure in evening dress who was drifting proudly among patrons in the bar.
As Faro approached and asked for a private word, Migley nodded and indicated that he should follow him into a room marked Private. As the door closed, the manager looked Faro up and down with approval. The advent of this tall, handsome young fellow with thick blond hair and an actor’s deep, rich voice was perhaps providential as he was searching urgently for a baritone to replace the one who had just left in such a disgraceful hurry. At least this one was better looking and younger; those looks alone would bring in the ladies – of all ages.
He indicated a chair at the large desk, its expanse almost empty but for a spread of solitaire, obviously Migley’s method of filling in his leisure moments during the performance.
As Faro sat down, Migley said: ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ and pushed across a notice regarding auditions. ‘I take it that you are a singer – and I would rightly guess – a baritone?’
Faro stared at him in amazement. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I am not. I am a police detective.’ Faro’s identity confirmed in the usual manner, Migley’s face fell, and consumed with disappointment, he said accusingly, ‘You are not in uniform.’
Faro smiled. ‘Not when I am off duty enjoying a night out with the excellent entertainment your theatre provides.’
Migley sniffed and looked less huffy. ‘So what is it you require?’
‘We are looking into a missing persons enquiry and it has been suggested that the young lady might be an actress. This is just a routine matter of asking at the local theatres,’ he added hastily, watching Migley’s lips tighten, ‘and if any of your girls are missing perhaps you might be able to supply an address—’
There was a sudden change in Migley’s manner. He stood up sharply, leaving Faro no doubt of the reply, and looking distinctly hostile, said coldly, ‘I have no such incident to report.’
Faro probed further. ‘None of your young ladies has left suddenly to take up employment elsewhere?’
Migley’s face reddened; he was distinctly flustered by the question. ‘Of course not, we offer excellent conditions of employment – the best in the country, I would add.’ And walking towards the door he said stiffly, ‘I am happy that I have no such incident to report as the one you are investigating.’ And opening the door he added, ‘I regret I cannot help you, officer.’
Faro thanked him for his time, bowed and left, not at all satisfied, for Migley’s agitated manner hinted at either guilt or a condition he had come across often in his career – that he had something to hide.
He could do nothing more as the interval bell sounded and he rejoined Lizzie and her friends, who watched them return to their seats with shrill hopes that they would all meet again – and soon.
Faro paid scant attention to the remaining acts: cute animals well trained – little dogs and monkeys, some dressed as nursemaids, pushing tiny perambulators, which produced coos of delight from some, including much of the audience and Lizzie, but not Faro who had a deep-rooted disapproval of circus or show animals.
He was not required to engage Lizzie in conversation on the way back to Lumbleigh Green. She was still enraptured by the songs and jolly atmosphere they had left and his preoccupation went unnoticed. He resolved to return next morning to the pub near the theatre, which he had seen patronised by the performers, and chat to the man who as doorkeeper entertained fellow drinkers with a host of stories, mostly exaggerated, gossip and scandalous whispers regarding artistes – and the stage manager.
Next morning, when the pub opened, he found the theatre doorman, who went by the name of Jimmy, in full flood, almost invisible behind a cloud of pipe smoke in a heavy beer-laden atmosphere. With the doorman only too willing to gossip, this time Faro was more successful.
Yes, indeed, there had been a real panic. Not only had Beau Garde the main singer walked out, but two dancers had also left without notice. Stormed out in fact. Offered a chance of a season with a big show in Glasgow, they said.
So that was why Migley was so upset, thought Faro, not guilt after all, and he felt a moment’s pity for the manager’s feelings of being let down, of betrayal. No wonder he had been so eager to consider the prospect of a replacement baritone. Migley would have had to add disappointment to his feelings, since Faro couldn’t sing a note in tune.
‘These two girls, did they share lodgings?’ Jimmy looked thoughtful as Faro went on: ‘Can you give me an address? Their landlady might know their whereabouts, or have a forwarding address?’
Jimmy shook his head. ‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid.’ But a sharp look, eyeing him shrewdly, and Faro realised that his questions might be misunderstood, as the doorman went on: ‘Have they done something wrong, then?’
‘Not at all. It’s a missing persons enquiry. Family anxious, you know the sort of thing.’
Jimmy nodded. ‘That’s it, is it? Aye, well as far as I know all three were heading for the Glasgow Hippodrome.’
Thanking him, Faro left considering his next move. Glasgow. That meant taking the train, a whole day there and back. But first he must report to Gosse and get his approval.
And that was easier than he had anticipated. As he told Gosse about the interview with the theatre manager, Gosse nodded, frowning, obviously preoccupied with other matters.
‘Remember that Rickels fraud case we were investigating before these murders needed our full attention?’
And pushing across a letter, ‘Well, here it is. Summoned by the court. Unfortunately I can’t go and leave matters unattended at a crucial stage of our enquiries. So I have written a report and you will need to deliver it in my place. You can look into the Hippodrome, but I’ll bet you’ll find that both girls are there. So much for your wild theory that the woman in Fleshers Close was an actress,’ he ended with a hoarse laugh.
After delivering last-minute instructions, the sergeant watched him leave. As the door closed he rubbed his hands and chortled with delight. He had his own reasons for welcoming an excuse to send Faro off to Glasgow.
And that included his hopeful wooing of Lizzie Laurie.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Faro loved trains. They were the marvel of the age. Sitting back in a speeding carriage and being carried across the countryside through a constantly moving landscape without making the slightest effort was a rare luxury when every day’s duty in Edinburgh meant walking mile after weary mile on foot.
The sun shone through the window, reflecting a glowing scene of tiny farms, tranquil hamlets and mellow fields surrounded by leafy hollows already making the dramatic change into autumn splendour.
Smiling to himself he decided this was bliss indeed as the palace of Linlithgow, birthplace of his beloved heroine, tragic, beautiful Mary Queen of Scots, filled the horizon to vanish behind a cloud of smoke as the train gathered steam.
Relaxing in his seat, he considered how long this journey would have taken by coach or horseback – the latter he avoided whenever possible, never having overcome his fears of the unpredictability of horses when faced with an emergency. A fear that had its roots in the childhood memory of his policeman father’s death under the wheels of a runaway carriage on Edinburgh’s Mound.
All too soon, as far as he was concerned, the journey was over as tall buildings and church spires staring down from either side of the railway line announced that they were approaching their destination … All that remained was the final negotiation on the track’s approach through the Cowlairs Incline where the train was hauled up through a deep rock cutting and tunnel, by a cable attached to a steam winding engine.
A few minutes later and the train puffed to rest at a platform in the handsome surroundings of Queen Street Station. Originally named Dundas Street, opened almost twenty years ago in 1842 as the western terminus of the Edinburgh and Glasgow Railway, built on the site of the once opulent Crawford Mansion with its extensive grounds, the station stood on the northern threshold of George Square, the magnificent heart of the city of Glasgow …
As he stepped out into the sunshine on his way to the City Chambers, he remembered how proud Glaswegians were of this square laid out in the 1780s as an elite residential development on the city’s western edge. It had been named in honour of King George III, and Robert and James Adam had prepared plans for a handsome terrace on its south side. It was never built and the last of the site’s earlier impressive homes had disappeared when one-time residents, such as the thread-making Coats brothers of Paisley, had moved out. The private gardens were now used as a public thoroughfare while all that remained of the grandeur of the surrounding buildings was represented by the Georgian architecture of the Copthorne Hotel and the front garden of the City Chambers, where Faro was to present the report on the fraud case investigated by DS Gosse and himself earlier that year.
This should not take long, he decided, as he climbed the steps and was ushered in the right direction of the meeting. Perhaps half an hour and then he would be free to make enquiries at the Hippodrome Theatre regarding the three artistes who had left Migley’s vaudeville show, hoping to discover that his theory was right and only two of the trio had ever reached Glasgow.
Ushered by a clerk into the boardroom where the meeting was taking place he went to join the men seated around the table. Taking a vacant seat, he glanced at the agenda and awaited his turn, finding the other topics were of local interest and some made little sense for him to follow even if he had so wished. The tendency was for the chairman to expound at length, and as several of the gentlemen obviously loved the sound of their own voices Faro began to despair at the passage of precious hours.
Whether his visit to the Hippodrome would confirm his suspicions with a sense of triumph or not, a prolonged meeting threatened to end a long-awaited chance of exploring Sauchiehall Street’s elegant terraces and villas before catching the last train back to Edinburgh. It was not to be. When at last the Rickels fraud case was reached, there was an interruption and a note was delivered to the chairman. Looking across at Faro, he read out the message. Owing to the sudden indisposition of the defendant, this case on the agenda would have to be postponed.
Disappointed and preparing to leave, Faro was drawn aside by the solicitor who whispered that as the time had been reset for the following morning, he had better remain, take lodging for the night and that a telegraph explaining the situation would be sent to DS Gosse.
Outside with the sun still blameless in an azure sky and the mellow shadows of late afternoon across George Square, Faro gave a great sigh – of delight. Another day was an unexpected holiday, to explore the delights of a city so unlike Edinburgh. Somehow warmer, kinder he decided, with citizens who smiled upon this stranger who asked for directions to the theatre after he had twice got lost on the way.
At last, walking up the steps, he was told the matinee performance was almost at an end. As he was too late for that, would he care for a ticket for the evening one? Declining, he explained that he wished to speak to the manager.
He was in luck. Mr Dobson was to be found in his office. The welcome he received was polite and genial. What could he do for him? Mr Dobson was less shocked than Migley had been at the information that the enquirer was a policeman from Edinburgh.
‘Sit ye down, officer. Something to drink, perhaps?’
A thirsty Faro declined alcohol in the course of duty. As he explained his mission, omitting that it was a murder case and explaining it was merely a missing persons enquiry, a soft drink produced from the cupboard was poured into a glass and set before him.
The manager listened, frowned. ‘Aye, we have artistes just joined us from Edinburgh, right enough. Two of them, a singer and his lady friend, a dancer.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you’ve made the journey for nothing, officer. Your missing actress didn’t come to us. You could try the Glasgow Fair, though.’ He hesitated. ‘They have sideshows, that sort of thing, a bit of a reputation. Maybe not the kind of setting for a reputable artiste, if you ken what I mean. Tell you what—’ A distant sound of applause reached them. ‘That’s the show finished – you could speak to Beau and Jane, they might have some information that would help you. Come with me.’
Faro followed him into the wings, where the performers were taking their final bow. He had never been as close to a stage before and the excitement, the greasepaint, the drama of it all was a new and thrilling experience. As they all hurried past, chatting, laughing, teasing one another, curious and admiring looks from the dancers came his way. Stepping forward, Dobson congratulated a young man. ‘You were in great voice tonight, Beau.’
Beau looked pleased as Dobson went on: ‘Jane too. She’s a great addition to our girls.’ Then taking Faro’s arm without mentioning that he was a policeman, he said: ‘This gentleman is here about an actress who left Edinburgh at the same time as you.’
Beau smiled. ‘You mean Doris Page.’ He shook his head. ‘She didn’t come with us.’
A pretty girl on her way to the dressing room had seen them and, curiosity aroused, came over. Wearing the teasing bespangled costume of a high-kicking chorus girl, she was introduced as Jane by Dobson and also congratulated for her performance. She dimpled at that. She listened carefully as Faro’s presence was again explained and the manager was suddenly called away by one of the stagehands.
Jane took Beau’s arm and frowned. ‘No, Doris didn’t come with us. She wanted to stay in Edinburgh. She has a wee girl, you know.’
While Faro felt that this fitted neatly into his theory regarding the identity of the dead woman in Fleshers Close, Jane looked uncomfortable, by which he guessed that Doris was probably unmarried. ‘Didn’t want to leave her with strangers.’
‘Have you any idea where she was going?’
Jane shook her head. ‘She didn’t get on with old Migley. He was always, well, chasing her, trying to get his hands on her.’ Jane shuddered and Beau grinned. ‘He was like that, always wanted his pound of flesh, if you know what I mean.’
Jane made a face. ‘Well, Doris got fed up and they had a row. Told me she’d find something else. That was a couple of weeks before we left.’
Faro thanked her for her information, and given Doris’s last address at the Edinburgh lodging she had shared with Jane, he took his leave. Mixed with a sense of triumph, he felt sadness for a broken life, and seeing again the face of that little girl at the murder scene, he determined to make further enquiries to see what had happened to
her.
Walking back towards the square he wondered if they now had another murder suspect. Was it possible that Migley had killed Doris Page? Gosse, he knew, would jubilantly seize upon this new piece of information, but hopeful as it might be, it seemed very unlikely that Migley had also murdered Ida. He remembered that game of solitaire, the playing cards spread on the table. But that seemed an unlikely clue. Not by any stretch of imagination could Migley fit Ida’s handsome, wealthy young lover (as whispered to Lizzie), nor did the description tally with the brutal man who attacked Jock Webb.
A stranger in this bustling city, he had no idea where to find cheap lodgings and as the Copthorne Hotel loomed ahead he decided to book a room for the night, hopeful that he could reclaim this as necessary expenses. If not, he did not really care – this was a once in a lifetime chance to enjoy the luxury of a splendid hotel.
As he made his way across to the reception area to book a room, a woman was walking in front of him towards the restaurant. A slim, young and lovely woman with long black hair.
His heart missed a beat. He knew that graceful lithe step. All his senses recognised this answer to all his dreams, and some of his nightmares too.
‘Inga!’ he called.
And Inga St Ola halted, swung round to face him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Faro was speechless; he blinked again.
Inga? Impossible, a figment of his overactive imagination. But here she was, walking towards him, her light footsteps on the polished floor. She was smiling, holding out her hands in welcome.
Murders Most Foul Page 11