"So you knew her?"
The Mad Bart looked vague. "No more than I know you, sir. As I said, saw my cats. Took a notion to buying one. Mice in her room, too. Scared of 'em. Pleasant girl, kind too. Was suffering from one of my attacks of the ague at the time. Told me the nuns made a good concoction of herbs. Brought some. Papist muck, of course, but did the trick. Never saw her again." His accompanying sigh, a shake of the great shaggy head, more than any words gave a glimpse of the loneliness of his life. "No. Never saw her again," he repeated sadly. "Rotten business. Glad they got the fellow. Deserved to swing for it. Crime passionnel, was it?"
"I don't think so," said Faro vaguely, anxious not to divert the stream of confidence.
"Oh, thought he had led her on, let her down. Damn fool. Had I been younger, I'd have married her myself."
Suddenly feeling that he was getting valuable information at last, Faro's senses were on the alert. Had the cats been Lily Goldie's excuse for an introduction to the Mad Bart? Had she perhaps had an eye on marrying this mad old man? The idea wasn't as impossible as it first seemed. It was happening every day, girls who married men old enough to be their grandfathers, for the money and, more often, for the title.
"This chap—wasn't the one she hoped to marry then?"
"Not as far as we know. That didn't come out in the evidence, anyway," said Faro cautiously.
"I naturally presumed ..."
"Presumed?"
"From what she said, that there was someone ..."
Faro felt a surge of excitement. So there was a man in existence who had offered Lily Goldie marriage.
"Didn't you tell anyone about this?"
"Why should I? Wasn't any of my business. After all, they got her murderer, didn't they?" He looked at Faro for a moment before continuing. "Can tell you who it was she hoped to marry, though. If you're interested. That young chap who fell under a train. Turned out that her expectations came to nothing, fellow was penniless, bit of a waster. Sent him packing. Quite right, seeing he had been leading her on. Not the done thing for a gentleman, is it now?"
Faro looked bleak. It had cost this particular young gentleman his life. "So you didn't consider the police should be told."
"If anyone had come and asked me, I should have told them. For what it was worth."
Leaving the kitchen with the kitten miaowing plaintively in its cardboard box, Faro silently cursed McQuinn as the Mad Bart said, "My felicitations to your young constable. Enjoys a chat over my garden wall when he's on duty. Gather he was brought up by nuns, or some such background. Don't hold that against him even if he is a papist. He's a shrewd young fellow. He'll go far, mark my words. Can all rest easy in our beds, knowing we have such chaps in the police."
As they shook hands at the door, Faro went away feeling sourly that wherever he went these days McQuinn seemed to have been there first, covering his inefficiency by ingratiating himself with everyone, from nuns to mad baronets. And managing very conveniently to be first on the scene at Cramond Island when the drowned girl was washed ashore.
Faro hoped his feelings were natural ones for having been thwarted by the case of Lily Goldie and not allowed to complete his own thorough investigations. He didn't like McQuinn but he didn't want to fall into a trap he knew of from experience of older detectives, eager to blame young constables for their own failures and mistakes. He also felt a question had been posed to which he must, by tact or guile, find the answer: what did Danny McQuinn know of Lily Goldie's personal life that had failed to find its way into his reports?
"So much for our private investigations," he told Vince over supper that evening, a delighted Mrs. Brook having taken the pretty ginger kitten into custody.
Vince looked thoughtful. "Are you sure that's all the Mad Bart said?"
Faro was hurt. He prided himself on his remarkable memory and the ability to make verbatim reports of conversations where necessary. "I am sure. Obviously the old gentleman was correct in assuming that Ferris had told Lily he was well off—until he was disinherited, or whatever, after failing his exams."
Vince sighed. "On the other hand, she might have been telling our Mad Bart that to keep him at a distance. There's no fool like an old fool in love." His mocking glance in his stepfather's direction made Faro wince. He refused, however, to fall for that particular piece of bait, and Vince continued, "Surely if there had been a man involved who loved her honourably and wanted to marry her he would have appeared at Hymes's trial?"
"Only if he was innocent of her murder."
"You mean, you think that he's the man we're looking for? A Mr. X about whom we know nothing but who, for reasons we will never know, might have murdered Lily Goldie? Well, who is he, and, more important, where is he? Tantalising, isn't it?"
"Something to hide doesn't make him guilty of murder. Perhaps his crime was being a philanderer, a bit of a bounder who gained Lily Goldie's favours under false pretences, like Ferris. Or our Mr. X might have been married already, in which case he would consider it prudent not to draw undue attention to himself and his extra-marital activities. Or, if he wasn't married, he and Lily could have quarrelled violently. She could have been blackmailing him—anything—there could be some very good reasons why he might not have wanted to appear at a murder trial."
From his own vast experience of crimes and criminal trials, Faro was fully aware that anyone who so appears, however innocent, is immediately besmirched in the public eye. Respectable Edinburgh society would go far to avoid "that man who appeared at the notorious murder trial". Faro also knew that such a notoriety was one that most men would go far to assiduously avoid, even to concealing vital evidence.
"You know, I still incline to our Mad Bart," said Vince, "as the most hopeful suspect. Tell me about his hands."
"His hands?"
"Yes. Did you notice anything about them?"
"Only that they were crippled with rheumatism."
"That's it," said Vince triumphantly. "I thought they would be, because what little I've seen of him walking, his feet are also affected."
"Small wonder, living in that wretchedly damp tower."
"Did he have difficulty using his hands?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. Pouring out a dram, lighting his pipe, took him a long time. Obviously, the pressure needed for strangulation would be beyond him."
"There you are. That's it," repeated Vince. "Don't you see, Stepfather? You're missing the whole point. What did I tell you right at the beginning?"
"That Lily was pushed off the Crags ..."
"And the scarf tied about her neck afterwards, to make it look the same as the Hymes murder." Seeing Faro's doubtful expression, he sighed. "Well, if it wasn't the Mad Bart with his rheumaticky hands, who are we left with?"
Faro rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hands incapable of strangling could also apply to a woman."
"A woman?"
"Yes. I'm giving serious consideration to the missing and mysterious Miss Clara Burnleigh."
"Are you now? Well, it's a deuced interesting theory."
"It poses only one question. Why?"
"Jealousy is the most obvious reason. But we can't know for sure until we track her down. And that I'm quite determined on."
"Dead or alive?"
"Hopefully alive. Because at least we know that Miss Burnleigh isn't the poor unfortunate lying in the mortuary, and the chances are that she is very much alive and not too far away."
Next morning, when Faro went to the Central Office, Constable McQuinn was waiting to give him a message.
"The drowned girl, sir. Her parents came and identified her late last night. Here are the papers." The statement said little, but McQuinn was eager to fill in the details. "Terrible state the mother was in—usual thing. Father showed the girl the door when he knew she was pregnant. Advocate, pillar of the Church, very respectable and all that sort of thing. Suicide it was, just as I thought when I first saw the corpse. Poor girl, with no one to turn to, threw herself in the river."
A waste of a life, thought Faro. It was the story of so many young girls. But what was left to them? A back-street abortion and a painful death in all probability. Or, if they and the child survived as outcasts from society, the woman bringing up her child alone, with not the least hope that any respectable man would wish to marry her, often resorted to prostitution as the only means of earning a living where her past would not be held against her.
"There is another letter for you, sir. Came by last night's post."
Faro tore open the envelope. In black capital letters the message read, "Clara B is a lying whore. So was her mother. Try asking for them beyond the crossroads at Mrs. Wishart's." It was signed, "One Who Seeks Justice".
As he hailed a cab from the stance at Parliament House, where several vehicles were reserved for police use, Faro felt triumphant. His visit to Fairmilehead had seriously upset some person or persons who bore Clara Burnleigh and her mother a grudge. From such disagreeable sources, information was readily forthcoming and eagerly given.
This was the break that all detectives longed for and seldom received. He felt the sure tingle of excitement that within hours the mystery of the missing Clara Burnleigh would be resolved.
He would be one step nearer to discovering the identity of Lily Goldie's slayer, and apprehending the second murderer.
Chapter 10
As the hired gig drove at a smart pace through villages and fields and smoky hamlets towards Fairmilehead, Faro found his thoughts returning to Alison Aird. He wished he had not decided to make this second visit alone. The day was identical in weather to that first excursion with her and it intensified his longing to see her again.
At every stage of the journey, Faro was haunted by Alison's presence: here we laughed at the children playing with a kitten; here she quoted Hamlet; here we admired an old water-mill.
The sun disappeared, a chill wind came leaping out of the Pentlands and cut across his shoulders like a cold knife. The walk was sad, as if she was dead and had left him for ever. He could hardly believe that at this moment she was probably sitting happily in her lodgings, sipping tea and going over her script for the next play in the repertoire. He had to steel himself and remember that he had not lost her, that the battle had not yet begun: a battle still to fight is also a battle still to win.
As he opened the gate of Mrs.Wishart's residence, which to his relief he found without difficulty, Alison's smiling ghost retreated as the detective swept aside the sentimental would-be lover.
What if there was no one at home and his journey fruitless? The old house stood aloof and shrouded by trees, a short distance from the village. Its windows and front door, its neat garden, spoke of shabby gentility. His second summons brought forth a response and the door was opened by a maid, whose appearance was in keeping with the house. She looked as if she had been serving in the establishment for some considerable time.
"Mrs. Wishart?"
"Who wants her?"
"Who is it, what do you want?" An old lady peered over the maid's shoulder. "We are not at home today."
"Mrs. Wishart?"
"That is my name." She regarded him, frowning, and he half expected the same reluctance as he had received, a stranger, at the Mad Bart's door. He was soon to discover that her manner was due to deafness rather than hostility.
"I wonder, madam, if you can help me. I'm looking for a young lady. She, er, calls herself Clara Burnleigh."
"I will deal with this. Go you back to your work." And dismissing the maid, Mrs. Wishart asked him to repeat the question. At the name, she gave a rather violent start.
"I thought that was what you said." A faint shadow disturbed the serene face, a slight hesitation. "I know no one of that name."
"That is a pity. I was advised to make my enquiry to you."
"Indeed. And who wishes to know?"
Faro decided in his turn to be deaf, and said, "Burnleigh may not be her real name, but I have good reason to believe she comes from this area. A tall pretty girl with fair straight hair," he added, remembering the Reverend Mother's description.
The old lady nodded vigorously, as if the description tallied. Then, examining Faro through her lorgnette, she demanded, "And who might you be?"
"Before I tell you my name, let me say that I only wish to talk to the young lady about one of her friends. An unfortunate colleague who was murdered—"
"Murdered—but how horrible. Horrible."
"A Miss Lily Goldie. Perhaps you knew of her?"
"No. No. As for Clara, I'm not aware ..." The old woman stopped, confused, her lips suddenly tight closed.
"Aware?" Faro asked.
"What Clara can do to help you with your enquiries. Justice has been done. I read in the newspapers that the murderer was hanged—weeks ago."
"That is so. But I am here to conduct a private investigation at the behest of a relative," Faro lied cheerfully. "This is an absolutely confidential matter and nothing you care to tell me need go any further."
Mrs. Wishart accepted the implication that the relative was one of Lily Goldie's. "In that case, of course, of course, I will do what I can to help you. Come inside."
As had been suggested by the exterior, the interior was spick and span and comfortably if plainly furnished.
"Do sit down, Mr. . . ?"
"Faro."
"You will take some tea?" After ringing the bell for the maid, she said, "What I am about to tell you is in the very strictest confidence, and I rely on your discretion as a gentleman—"
"Before you do so, I ought to tell you that I am a detective inspector—in this case acting in a private capacity."
"I see no reason why there should not be gentlemen among policemen." She gave him a shrewd glance. "I have lived a long time. Inspector Faro, and whatever your profession you have the look of a man I would trust."
The maid brought in tea, and when it was served Mrs. Wishart continued, "Burnleigh is not Clara's real name. That is her mother's name and was mine before I married. Clara is my grand-niece. Her real name is Clerkwell." She paused. "There was a great scandal attached to that name about fifteen years ago. Perhaps you remember it?"
"Of course. A case of embezzlement and—"
"And Clara's mother was deeply involved with the partner in the firm. You know the rest."
It had been before his time, but was a cause célèbre in the records of the Edinburgh City Police. Clerkwell had been cheated by his stepbrother and had committed suicide—a suicide in such suspicious circumstances that it was very probably murder dressed up to look as if Clerkwell had taken his own life. Ethel Clerkwell was tried and acquitted with the verdict: Not Proven.
"The poor child, my grand-niece, lived under the stigma of all that implied in Edinburgh society."
Faro smiled grimly. Not Proven was a byword with the magistrates. We know you did it, but we can't prove it. Go away and don't do it again.
"Her mother's life was shattered by the scandal. Her health never recovered and Clara had nursed her devotedly. Imagine a child of ten, hardly understanding anything but the terrible cloud that hovered over her mother's reason. By the time the child was eighteen, it looked as if poor Ethel would have to be committed to an insane asylum. But Clara stayed with her until, mercifully, two years ago she died. Clara was heartbroken but free. They had long since reverted to the name of Burnleigh, and it was under that name she sought a situation as a teacher in an Edinburgh convent—I cannot remember the name."
Faro told her, and asked, "Did the sisters know her story?"
Mrs. Wishart shook her head. "No. As I told you, she wished to begin a completely new life. She told no one. A year ago, she met a young man of property, well connected in Edinburgh society. They fell in love and he asked her to marry him. She was in something of a dilemma, poor child, for she was afraid that by telling him the truth she would lose him. While she was summoning up her courage, one of the maids was murdered. The police came to investigate and my poor Clara was horrified,
guiltily aware that they might well discover the truth about her on the eve of her marriage, which she had kept secret even from the sisters. And so she fled."
Mrs. Wishart paused to refill Faro's teacup. "I have to tell you that Clara's story has a happy ending. The young man's regard for her was in no way diminished by her revelations. Her story merely strengthened the depth of his love and determination to cherish her as his wife. If you wish, I can ask her if she would be willing to speak to you, privately, of course."
"If you would be so good. I will give you my address."
"That will not be necessary, Inspector. She lives not far away—in the next village. Her husband is not at home, alas, a family bereavement has him in Stirling this week. Clara was unable to accompany him for reasons of health."
"She is ailing?"
Mrs. Wishart smiled fondly. "Shall we say, they have expectations of a happy event and the early stages are somewhat trying?"
"Perhaps I should not intrude upon her at this time?"
"By this hour of the day, the worst will be over. It is only in the mornings when she feels considerably unwell and would be unlikely to feel strong enough to receive a visitor."
As he pocketed Clara's card and prepared to take his leave, Faro said, "You have been very helpful, Mrs. Wishart. I trust that your grand-niece will receive me as graciously."
"I think you have my word for that. My poor Clara, having suffered so greatly herself, has learned the lesson early in life, that we should be willing to help others in distress. And this unhappy relative of poor Miss Goldie?" she enquired, inviting further explanation. When this was not forthcoming, she went on, "My grand-niece has a kind heart. I am sure she will receive you."
On the doorstep, Faro turned and thanked her once again.
"One moment, Inspector. There is one question you might be good enough to answer—to satisfy my curiosity."
"And that is?"
"Who gave you my name? I ask because it appears that our secret is not as well hidden as we imagined."
Enter Second Murderer (An Inspector Faro Mystery No.1) Page 9