The evening vanished almost too quickly; all too soon one of the line of bells high on the wall alongside clanged noisily, summoning Mrs Brown. She curtseyed briefly to Clara who stood up and sighed. It was time for her to return as hostess of her own birthday party. Her wry shrug indicated more than any words that it would not be nearly as much fun as the one she was leaving, Vince lamenting the fact that she had not seen Paul do some of his card tricks.
Paul stood up, bowed to Clara and Lizzie.
‘You’re not going so soon, please stay,’ Vince said to him.
Paul shook his head. ‘Sorry, lad. I have to go. Duty calls.’
A look exchanged between Paul and Clara, fellow sufferers on friendly terms for the duration of the evening at least; whatever their relations when they returned to the family fold, it expressed their regret at leaving this cheerful informal birthday feast.
But their departure had signalled its end. Lizzie remembered that it was past Vince’s bedtime and there was a sudden return to the sulky schoolboy with his shrug of indifference. Mrs Brown and Betty remembered their duties too and began to silently clear the table, removing the dishes to the sink, the housekeeper whispering a promise to Vince that she would bring some of that cake back with her later.
Lizzie looked across at Faro. ‘I’ll walk Vince back to the cottage.’ Her pleading glance begged him to accompany them.
Here was the opportunity to talk to Lizzie that Faro had dreaded, although there would be little chance of more than polite civilities in Vince’s presence. They emerged into a moonlit evening with a star-spangled canopy over Arthur’s Seat and Vince lapsed into silence in the short distance to the cottage.
As they approached, a large black dog rushed over. Faro’s policeman’s instinct was to distrust all large dogs that bounded towards him. He gave a sigh of relief that this was one of the guard dogs Lumbleigh insisted was necessary to patrol the grounds. They lived in the stables and Vince, the object of the dog’s attentions, was greeted effusively.
Vince patted him and grinned at Lizzie. ‘This is Boy, he sometimes goes with Paul and me catching rabbits on the hill.’
Then politely listening to stern instructions to do his homework properly, Vince smiled, kissed his mother: ‘Goodnight, Ma,’ and instead of ignoring Faro in his usual manner as if he was invisible, he held out his hand and with a slight bow said: ‘Goodnight, sir. Thank you for coming to Ma’s party.’
Faro replied in kind. ‘It was a good evening. You’ll soon be top of the class in English, if you like Shakespeare. Well done – keep it up.’ Another grin and Vince disappeared indoors.
Faro turned to Lizzie and took her arm. ‘Now it’s my turn to see you home.’
She laughed. ‘Hardly! It’s only a few hundred yards away,’ but she took his arm fondly. ‘I do love my new shawl. You are so clever to choose exactly the right kind.’
They had been walking smartly and were within sight of the entrance to the big house. Lizzie looked back towards the cottage, candlelight in the attic window indicating that Vince had taken her advice and retired to his room.
She sighed. ‘I’m so glad Paul came. I felt so honoured. And he is so kind, really fond of Vince. He calls in most weekdays to help with his homework. Like having a private tutor,’ she added proudly. ‘I’ve decided he is, at heart, a good young man.’ She paused. ‘A bit of a flirt, but then all students are a bit wild. I think he’ll be a fine doctor some day, don’t you think?’
Faro merely shrugged and Lizzie looked disappointed, obviously wanting him to share her good opinion. Would they linger in the moonlight and talk for a while? But Faro was suddenly bereft of suitable topics. He kissed her gently and said: ‘I’ll see you on Saturday as usual, shall I?’
‘Of course, Jeremy, that would be lovely.’ Lizzie sounded delighted, as if this was some new arrangement. ‘You must tell me all about your visit to Glasgow.’
‘If I can remember,’ lied Faro. As if he would ever forget. ‘It seems like long ago.’ That at least was true. ‘Goodnight,’ and leaning down he kissed her cheek, aware again of that familiar fragrant perfume.
He watched her disappear inside and began his walk back to his lodgings, the moonlight gleaming on a setting built for a romantic evening, mocking a wretched would-be lover. His thoughts turned miserably to the new version of Paul he had just encountered.
How could he tell her of his secret anxiety? He had looked at Lizzie wanting to say something, a warning to look at what may lurk beneath the polite, friendly veneer. If Paul was the women’s killer, then it was a lot more sinister than a rich lad’s tendency to flirt with the maids. And if his growing suspicions were proved correct, he thought of the effects of this catastrophic revelation of lies and deceit on a twelve-year-old boy.
His hero, his first friend, the young man he had set up in his imagination as akin to the brave soldier who had been his father, suddenly revealed to all the world as a callous, brutal murderer of two young women. One of them, the maid Ida, he had seduced and promised to marry until, believing her to be pregnant and she threatening to blackmail him, in a panic he had killed her.
Faro’s imagination failed to deal with the results. And looking further, what of Lizzie who also had another devastating blow awaiting Vince? That she did not even know the identity of his father, an unknown rapist, and that the brave soldier he had come to venerate and whose example he wished to copy was a work of fiction, of lies and deceit.
He sighed. And at the end of this nightmare how would such revelations affect his own relationship with Lizzie? He could sense that it was crumbling. He could see her life ruined, and not even marriage could restore what would die for her the disastrous day Vince came to know the truth.
While his thoughts were turning back to Paul again, Lizzie had said: ‘He’s a bit of a flirt – and not the only one.’ She had laughed gently. ‘Policemen like to flirt too.’
Puzzled he said: ‘You mean me? I don’t—’
She laughed, took his arm. ‘No, not you. Your sergeant.’
‘You mean DS Gosse?’ He stared at her. ‘You amaze me.’ He shook his head. It was unbelievable; he couldn’t imagine an amorous Gosse flirting with any female. There must be some mistake, but Lizzie was smiling gently.
She had decided she should tell Jeremy. ‘He has invited me out to tea a couple of times.’ After the first time, she knew that there was more in this than a mere police interview which could have properly taken place in the kitchen at Lumbleigh Green. She had a woman’s instinctive awareness of a man’s lust, something left over from thirteen years ago, and had always avoided arousal in the men she had encountered.
As for Jeremy, he was no seducer, respected her even if he was not madly in love with her, she sighed, as she was with him. And at times like this, despite her hopes, he seemed so far away, preoccupied, and she felt no longer close to him, their easy friendship fading, slipping away, soon to be lost for ever.
The one night when they had slept together, briefly become lovers, had given her so much hope for the future. The ecstasy of those hours, once so real … now she wondered if she had dreamt it all. Or if it was real, she thought guiltily, had it created a barrier between them, a decent man’s fear of being trapped into marriage?
While these were Lizzie’s anxious thoughts, Jeremy was merely wondering if she was trying to make him jealous. But he was not one to brood for long on anything except an unsolved mystery. And there were more important issues than Gosse’s conduct with a witness. Pushing aside problems regarding his love life, or absence of it, his remarkable memory with its complete recall presented the events of the evening, particularly Vince’s transformation, and prayed that the good terms established between them would last until their next meeting.
A friendly exchange with the new version of Paul Lumbleigh, also revealed at Lizzie’s birthday party, was indicated. And one more ominous detail bounded to the front of his mind. That Paul, with an interest in university dramatics, was an amateur actor.
> Was this fact relevant, the vital clue to the murder of Doris Page?
Approaching the Pleasance, he passed by the Catholic church, ominously aware of a new face among the possible suspects.
Father Burren, a handsome young man with a splendid voice who wore the role of parish priest so uncertainly. Another actor perhaps?
A call at the rectory tomorrow was also required.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Arriving at the Central Office next morning, Gosse was seated as usual behind the inspector’s desk. He looked up and pointed Faro towards an impressive number of papers on the opposite desk.
‘These are for you to deal with.’ Faro scanned through them. Edinburgh criminals had been busy. Attempted burglaries in Newington, domestic brawls with neighbours in the Pleasance, drunken fights in the High Street closes. A bank customer reporting a suspicious fraud case.
He sighed and Gosse said, ‘That’ll keep you busy, and if you have any spare time,’ he added sarcastically, ‘don’t forget there are a lot of loose ends still to be followed on our murder cases.’ Head down, bent over the desk, he seized some documents with an air of frantic impatience, indicating clearly that Faro was not to expect much help.
Deciding that the sergeant was making heavy weather of his important new role as temporary inspector in Wade’s absence, Faro said: ‘I thought I might look in and see Fr Burren.’
Gosse’s frown deepened as he looked up from the desk. ‘A waste of time, Faro. Another of your impossible theories.’ He shook his head firmly. A lapsed Roman Catholic, it was many years since he had set foot in a church or attended Mass, but the early training of regarding priests, with superstitious dread, as being next to God still lingered.
The routine duties of a detective constable dealing with matters arising from the daily reports took some several hours. With nothing but untidy loose ends and sore feet to show for his day’s activities, late that afternoon Faro wearily made his way down the Pleasance towards the Holy Virgin church.
The door was firmly closed. With no idea if that was usual when there were no services, he considered leaving a message at the rectory next door.
He was out of luck. Once again, a closed door and no answer to the bell which he heard clearly ringing through the house. Faro was about to scribble a note and push it through the letter box, but second thoughts suggested misgivings about how this might be received, alarming the sensitive young priest, so he decided to call tomorrow instead.
He sighed. There remained one possibility at the end of a disappointing day of making even a small amount of progress in the murders of Doris Page and Ida Watts. The latter lay in the direction of Lumbleigh Green and walking as briskly as weariness permitted he headed towards the garden entrance at the base of Arthur’s Seat, praying that his visit might coincide with Paul tutoring Vince at the Browns’ cottage.
At first it seemed fortune was with him, but it was soon evident that Paul was not pleased to see a uniformed policeman, as he came not from the cottage but off the hill. Vince at his side, both were carrying guns and a shooting target. Boy bounded towards him but the dog’s welcome was the only one on offer.
He waited, and as they approached he greeted them cordially. Paul hardly glanced in his direction and staring ahead looked annoyed as with an effort at politeness Vince asked: ‘Chasing criminals, sir?’
Faro muttered a smiling acknowledgement in a desperate effort to make this sound like a casual encounter, without any excuse that would have been a lie.
Vince nodded briefly and turning to Paul continued a conversation about adjusting the shooting target next time, leaving Faro bereft of any of the friendly overtures he had come to hope for and expect after the genial friendliness of Lizzie’s birthday party.
Paul walked on steadily ignoring them both and Faro sighed inwardly. Had it after all been merely a polite show put on for Lizzie’s benefit, and had Vince also stepped back into his normal role of resentment?
He watched Vince race ahead with the dog and said desperately: ‘I’m glad to see you, sir.’ Paul turned, regarding him with some effort, and received this statement coldly, his manner suggesting that this sentiment was not mutual. Determinedly Faro pressed on: ‘It will save me another journey, if it is convenient to have a few words, sir.’
Paul sighed, stopped in his tracks. ‘Well?’ he said heavily.
Encouraged, Faro took out his notebook. ‘DS Gosse is finalising enquiries, making sure they are right in every detail. As you probably know much of the law, sir,’ he added, hoping a touch of flattery would not come amiss, ‘you will be aware that it is a routine matter to establish alibis – just to ensure where everyone was in Lumbleigh Green when—’
Paul, interrupting with an impatient gesture, said sharply: ‘Yes, yes. Get on with it.’
Faro consulted the notebook as if reading its contents for the first time, conscious of Paul’s impatient expression and that Vince had moved in closer to his friend making it clear, whatever the verdict, whose side he was on.
‘I was at home, as my stepfather informed you,’ Paul said wearily.
Faro looked up. ‘Is that so, sir. Mr Lumbleigh said—’ and as if reading from the notes, ‘he said that you were at Surgeons’ Hall.’
Paul shook his head. ‘That was incorrect. He was wrong,’ he added, as though proving his stepfather wrong gave him a certain amount of pleasure. ‘That was only until early evening. Then I came home and went directly up to my room without seeing anyone. I stayed there and missed dinner.’ Pausing he shrugged. ‘I was feeling a little off colour.’ And trying to repress a shudder, ‘Dismembering and cutting up a corpse can have a destructive effect on one’s appetite, as you will probably know in your own profession, Constable.’
He sounded sincere enough and Faro said, ‘So no one can vouch for your presence that evening?’
‘No one. I had left instructions not to be disturbed and went to bed early. I remained there until next morning.’ He said it firmly. ‘You must take it or leave it, I’m afraid,’ he added, his shrug implicating that he cared not one jot either way.
With no excuse or invitation to linger, Faro bowed and left, his feeling of depression more about Vince than Paul – certain he had lost the ground he had gained momentarily at Lizzie’s party and when walking back to the cottage with them both. But more important, he saw again the tragedy that lay in wait for the boy who was also Lizzie’s son if he proved that Paul was a murderer …
Faro made his way back to the Central Office and read through the reports. A morning of tying up more loose ends on the domestic dramas, and soothing the suspicions of the bank customer. The burglary at Morningside was the work of an old lag newly out of jail but undeterred. Not prone to feats of ingenuity he was easily tracked down, as Faro suspected, in the tenement of the woman he lived with in periods of freedom. There Faro made the arrest, put the handcuffs back on him, regardless of noisy protests of innocence, one of the accompanying constables emerging from the bedroom with the bag of stolen jewels. After meeting the bank customer and with some difficulty persuading him that he was not being robbed, a somewhat weary Faro went in search of Gosse for further instructions. The sergeant was not at his temporary desk and Faro would have been surprised to hear that he was in his favourite café on the Royal Mile.
He was awaiting the arrival of Lizzie Laurie to take tea with him in this informal atmosphere, pretending to himself and any who might believe him that he found this method of interrogation easier with the fairer sex. Far more successful, he maintained, than the intimidating atmosphere of the interview room at the Central Office for taking down statements from witnesses.
At that moment in the café, Gosse was consulting his timepiece with an uneasy feeling that the early progress he had envisaged with Mrs Laurie was fading and that she was not returning his ardour. This did not make him feel more favourably disposed to Faro, now regarded by him as a serious rival. He consoled himself with the thought: how on earth could such an att
ractive young widow prefer a lowly detective constable to a sergeant, especially as he had hinted strongly that he was about to be promoted to inspector?
Faro meanwhile stood outside the church in the Pleasance reading a notice in large letters beseeching ‘All Worshippers Welcome. Please Come In.’ Deciding that the locked door would be a disappointment to those religiously inspired or with consciences overburdened and in sore need of confession and absolution, he read a further notice in smaller letters: ‘If closed, intending worshippers should apply to the rectory.’ An arrow pointed towards the tall thin house with narrow windows that Faro had visited earlier that day.
There was an apology of a garden and the open door unleashed a strong aroma of incense and a hallway decorated, if such a frivolous word could be applied, by a profusion of saintly images as well as paintings and candles which had apparently overflowed from or sought a warmer refuge than the chilly atmosphere inside the church.
A stout woman of middle years and motherly aspect eased her way through this medley, her eager expression vanishing as she gazed past him down the road. It said clearly that he was not the visitor she expected. In answer to his question, no, the father was not here; her accent, identical to the priest’s, proclaimed that she was also from Ireland. Concealing her emotions she was regarding Faro’s uniform as if a policeman who was not of the Holy Virgin’s congregation was contaminating the rectory’s sacred threshold.
Eager to close the door, she asked politely: ‘Can I help you, Constable? I’m Mrs Casey, the father’s housekeeper.’
‘I don’t think so, madam. A few words with Fr Burren is all I require. When will he be back?’
The housekeeper shook her head, bit her lip … ‘Who knows? He has parish matters to attend to and this is his day for the infirmary visits. He has evensong then, confirmation classes this evening, and tomorrow morning—’
‘Thank you, madam. Please give Fr Burren a message. I will call again tomorrow,’ said Faro, cutting short what promised to be a long list of the priest’s more pressing engagements.
Murders Most Foul Page 17