Tessa felt sad. Assembling this collection of names had reminded her just what shaky foundations her marriage had been built on.
‘Remember the Chinese proverb, “This too shall pass”.’ Ishbel squeezed her niece’s hand. ‘In a few weeks this will be over. You and James were unhappy because neither of you were the people you thought you’d married. Now you can make a new, happier, life for yourself.’
‘That’s very pragmatic.’
‘Life has taught me that pragmatism is a very useful quality. It would have been better if you could simply have divorced him, but there you go.’ Ishbel looked at Tessa and her voice became less brisk. ‘Tess, you were a suffragette as soon as you were old enough to read a newspaper, and you should be careful about marrying again. Life with a man who thinks you should be content simply to run the household won’t make you happy. You should travel, get a job perhaps.’ Ishbel had clearly been thinking about Tessa’s future.
‘I’m qualified for nothing.’ Tessa was thoughtful. ‘I suppose I could study. But what?’
‘Now isn’t the time to worry about the specifics. But you’re an exceptional young woman and you should do something that matters. What you did during the war was quite extraordinary. Maybe that was one of James’s problems – he felt inadequate beside you.’
‘I did no more than many and a lot less than others.’
‘You girls chose to risk your lives for the rest of us. Very brave indeed. You’ve earned the right to be happy.’
In the sleepless hours of that night, Tessa thought about Ishbel’s words and her suggestions for the future. She would like to travel on something other than troop trains with her baggage over her shoulder, and she would like an occupation that would make a difference to the world. When James’s killer was caught, she would take some time to think about it. When he was caught. If he was caught.
Chapter Thirteen
Tessa wasn’t at all sure of the dress code for visiting a police station. She opted for looking as respectable as possible in a black crêpe blouse and a skirt that fell to three inches above her ankles. Over that she wore a long cashmere cardigan in a suitably muted shade of burgundy. She wore dark stockings and low-heeled shoes with a strap buttoned across the instep. Her hair was styled into a sleeker version of its usual unruly waves and the only jewellery she wore was a gold Cartier watch and her wedding band. Assessing herself in the mirror, Tessa hoped that her appearance would please her mother even if this morning’s planned destination would not.
In the dining room, her parents were already at breakfast. Her stomach fluttering a little, she declined food but accepted the coffee offered by Kincaid: strong, black and unsweetened as she’d grown to prefer it during the war when sugar and milk were often in short supply.
Knowing that she simply had to make the list and she couldn’t fob him off much longer, Tessa had telephoned the police station the afternoon before when she had returned from her walk, and arranged to see Inspector Rasmussen at eleven o’clock. It wasn’t far to the police stations but she had a detour to make first.
Escaping the house while her mother was busy elsewhere, leaving the beleaguered Kincaid to pass on a message, Tessa put on a dark red, wool coat, crossed at the front and fastened with a single oversized button, a matching cloche hat and black gloves. As was her habit, she took no bag, simply putting her purse and the envelope containing the list for the inspector in her pocket.
Edinburgh was sunny, if cold, this morning and the sight of the snowdrops in the gardens made Tessa smile as she set off along Heriot Row. There had been times when she thought she’d never see anything but mud and dead, shattered trees again. Since her return she’d had a greater appreciation for nature and had spent hours of her recovery bundled up in coats and shawls, reading on a bench in Queen Street Gardens and enjoying the smell of the seasons changing.
This morning the crisp sunshine had brought out a number of her neighbours. Tessa didn’t stop to exchange pleasantries, but merely smiled and inclined her head. Many of them had known her since childhood and her life had given them great interest over the last few years. Now that James had departed this mortal coil in such dramatic circumstances she thought they must be fairly agog.
Turning into Howe Street the north wind was biting, and Tessa was glad to turn left again into the relative shelter of Royal Circus with its tall townhouses of grey Craigleith sandstone, almost identical in outward appearance to her parents’. She walked along the north side and stopped in front of a house at the centre of the terrace. Her house. It had been a wedding present from her father, but had been requisitioned during the war and used as a convalescent home. When it was returned to the family it was in a poor state and so workmen had been employed there for months, repairing, decorating, installing bathrooms and heating and the most modern of kitchens.
Like the Heriot Row house, this one rose five stories, one large room or so wide, with a basement area at the front. It was deserted today, the builders and decorators having finished their work a few weeks earlier and through the open shutters she could glimpse the stark white walls, so modern and so unlike any of the other neighbouring houses. Although some of her grandmother’s furniture was in storage for her, she hadn’t been able to face recreating that Edwardian ideal and had chosen most of her furniture from Heal’s and Liberty: pale wood rather than mahogany, simple lines rather than curlicues and lions’ feet.
The intention had been that she and James would use the house as their Edinburgh home, dividing their time between there and the Dunbar family seat in East Lothian where James would take over some of the estate responsibilities. But he had been increasingly resistant to seeing Dunbar House as anything other than the ideal setting for raucous house parties and he’d avoided any mention of farming or tenancies. Unable to consider settling down, he’d taken little interest in this house and so all the fittings and décor had been chosen by Tessa. That was fortunate really, she supposed: at least she wouldn’t have to live with his ghost in the form of some ghastly wallpaper.
It was definitely time to move to her house, she decided, pleased that she had told her parents and set that in motion. It was time to begin making the new life she had discussed with Ishbel. This afternoon she would arrange for her furniture to be delivered to her white-walled tranquillity, and see what list of necessities her mother thought she should order from Edinburgh’s department stores. Finding staff would take more time, but she could manage on her own for a while if necessary. A week or so and she would be able to take up residence there.
Now though, there were more pressing, less attractive prospects ahead. She glanced at her watch. Half-past ten. Time to go.
The walk to Torphichen Street police station took twenty minutes or so: a steep climb up to the west end of Princes Street and then along Shandwick Place. The building, a Victorian smog-stained edifice, had a forbidding demeanour with high windows and heavy doors; reprimanding to the criminal class rather than welcoming to the innocent. She climbed the steps and took a deep breath as she entered the hallway where a sergeant behind a counter looked up. Tessa noticed his double-take as his experienced eye took in her expensive clothes and confident manner.
‘Good morning madam. How may I help you?’ He looked curious.
‘Good morning. I believe Inspector Rasmussen is expecting me.’
‘Can I ask your name, please?’
‘Lady Tessa Kilpatrick.’
Tessa fought back the urge to turn and run, to tear up the list and just ride out the wave of gossip. Perhaps people would soon forget that they’d suspected her of murder. But she knew that they wouldn’t. And even if they did, that would mean that James’s killer would get away with his crime. Her husband was far from perfect but he hadn’t deserved to die like this and it was her duty, not just as a wife but as a friend, a comrade, a human being, to do what she could to make sure that his murderer was brought to justice.
The sergeant lifted a flap on his counter and beckoned Tessa
through to an inner sanctum of linoleum-floors and green and cream-painted corridors. He escorted her into a space that the chipped, black lettering on its glazed door proclaimed to be Interview Room three and asked her to wait. He dithered in the doorway for a moment.
‘I’ll fetch the inspector, ma’am. Can I get you a cup of tea or anything?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll be fine.’ Tessa sat down on one of the two chairs that flanked a scrubbed and gouged deal table. As she removed her gloves and placed them on the table next to the envelope she’d brought with her, she gazed around the small, high-ceilinged room, utterly devoid of any character and wondered what the sludge coloured walls had witnessed. Murderers, thieves, all manner of criminals, no doubt. People who had lost their way at some point, for some reason, and made the dreadful choices that had brought them here. And now she was here too, confident that Rasmussen knew her to be innocent, but who knew what his colleagues and superiors thought? Maybe even the desk sergeant had recognised her name and wondered whether she was here to be questioned as a suspect.
Inspector Rasmussen arrived abruptly, a shape looming through the glass a second before he entered the room, a file of papers in one hand. He looked as he always did – neat and composed. They exchanged greetings and he took the other chair, looking at her expectantly.
‘I’ve made the list you asked for.’ Tessa pushed the envelope across the table to Rasmussen and he slit it open with his thumbnail. He took in the number of names on the two sheets enclosed and looked at her with an eyebrow raised.
‘My husband was a popular man, and I thought you would want an exhaustive list.’ Tessa shrugged. ‘I’ve annotated it so that you know who they are. I haven’t included addresses but if you can’t find them I can look them up for you. The list begins with the women I know or am pretty certain that he had—’ she hesitated, searching for a polite word, ‘relations with. Then I’ve worked down in order of decreasing but still possible likelihood, until we reach a few women that he knew before he married me and who might have felt slighted at the manner in which he broke things off.’
‘Thank you for this. I can imagine that it was an unpleasant task.’
‘To be honest, Inspector, it has helped me to draw a line beneath my marriage. My husband was a philanderer, and although he didn’t deserve what happened to him it was probably inevitable that his ways would catch up with him sooner or later. We should never have married in the first place.’
‘Why did you?’ Rasmussen immediately looked apologetic, aware that his question could be seen as impertinent. Tessa shook her head slightly, reassuring him.
‘We were young and foolish and in love with the idea of being in love. And we’d seen so many people die that I don’t think either of us really expected to come home one day and have a proper married life. We were thumbing our noses at death. And we were lucky enough to come home, and then we had to face our mistake.’ She smiled. ‘A problem we were lucky to have really. Luckier than so many.’
Rasmussen nodded and there was a few seconds’ silence. He looked again at the list and she saw his eyes skimming the names, the slight shake of his head as though he was amazed that she could think of so many women who might murder James in a fit of jealous or scorned rage.
‘As well as these ladies, we’re still looking at the possibility that your husband’s murderer was someone he knew from the war. He was definitely not shot with the Webley that was beside him – most probably it was a Luger.’
‘There must be a few of those kicking about among former soldiers. I liberated mine from a dead German officer. It’s a much better weapon. Like I said, I didn’t just drive ambulances.’
‘Quite.’ Rasmussen looked at her and she saw the puzzlement in his eyes. It would make things so much easier for so many people if she would fit into the handy pigeonhole they had for her. ‘We’ll need to look at his military records and see if there’s anything there that might indicate a motive, talk to his comrades and so on.’
‘Major Henderson works at the War Office and he’s already looking through reports and so on to see if he can spot anything.’ Tessa noticed Rasmussen’s surprise. ‘I knew that I hadn’t killed him even if you didn’t and so it seemed only sensible to look for other suspects.’ She smiled.
At that moment, there was a hurried knock on the door and the desk sergeant came in without waiting for a response.
‘Inspector, you need to come wi’ me. There’s been another murder.’
Chapter Fourteen
The tenements of Marchmont were very different to others in the city. Built for the growing Victorian middle-classes, they were large, airy flats close to parkland known as The Meadows. Usually a quiet and deeply respectable neighbourhood, the arrival of the police in Arden Street had brought many of the residents to their bay windows to see what was going on. Their interest was piqued again when another motor car arrived and a man in an overcoat jumped out and hurried towards the stair door where a constable currently stood guard. He was followed by a well-dressed young woman who aroused more curiosity. The denizens of the city had become accustomed to seeing women in police uniforms during the war, but surely there weren’t any female detectives?
Inside the flat, up two flights of stone stairs, three police constables were waiting, together with a man Tessa took to be a doctor, given his black leather Gladstone bag. The policemen stood to attention at the sight of Rasmussen, their eyes flickering towards Tessa, raised eyebrows asking a question.
‘At ease, men. What seems to have happened?’
‘A man’s been killed.’ The doctor elbowed his way past the burly, serge-clad constables.
‘We rather gathered that.’ Rasmussen was curt.
‘I’m Doctor Harrison. I do some work at the mortuary as well as the infirmary and I noticed some similarities. It’s a handgun injury and the daily woman told one of the constables that he was a soldier in the same regiment as the victim in the Kilpatrick murder.’ He stopped, aware that he’d perhaps said too much, looking from Rasmussen to Tessa.
‘I see.’ Rasmussen paused, and Tessa waited politely to be introduced.
When Sergeant Bennett had mentioned that there was a possible connection between the deaths, she had been determined not to be left behind, and had simply picked up her gloves and accompanied Rasmussen out of the station and to his motorcar.
‘Lady Kilpatrick, you can’t come with me.’ He had looked irritated by her presence.
‘But I know who Callum McKenzie is.’
‘Really?’ He had stopped in the act of unlocking the car door and looked up at her.
‘The name is familiar at any rate. James knew him, I’m sure. You should take me with you. I might spot something useful. It was me that first spotted James’s death was not as it first appeared. Trust me, I’m a handy type to have around.’
Rasmussen hadn’t looked as though he doubted this in the least, though Tessa knew that his superiors would not like it. Strictly speaking, Tessa was still a suspect but in the absence of any actual proof, the case against her wasn’t compelling. And she might be useful. She could see why he was rather conflicted. Tessa smiled in as charming a manner as she possibly could and the inspector had sighed and opened the passenger door for her.
Tessa walked around the tenement, avoided touching anything and similarly avoided the curious gazes of the constables and the hysterical sobbing of the deceased’s daily woman in the kitchen. She had found his body and raised the alarm and it seemed to be taking a significant amount of the dead man’s whisky to calm her down. It struck her that the woman would be out of work and that she was in need of a charwoman. Perhaps she ought to offer her a job? Then she saw the whisky glass being refilled and decided against it, if only for the sake of her liquor bills.
Although his name was indeed familiar, Tessa couldn’t remember much about Callum McKenzie. She was pretty sure that they’d never been introduced and she didn’t remember James mentioning him. Not since he’d been demobb
ed, at least. Which was slightly odd; most soldiers kept in touch to some degree with former comrades, especially those who lived so close by.
It seemed that McKenzie was a tidy man: clothes folded with military precision, books in alphabetical order, tins lined up in the larder. Although the lock on the front door had been forced, there were no signs of a search or a burglary. Whoever had broken into his apartment and shot him had come with that sole intention.
The body was in the bathroom, slumped on the floor with its head towards the window. Tessa went in, the constable at the door too surprised to do anything other than step back out of her way. McKenzie had been shot in the back of the head; the entry wound was less than an inch in diameter. Blood, bone fragments and things that Tessa would rather not think about, pebble-dashed the whole room and she knew that the exit wound would be substantial. She bent over to study the injury near his hairline at the back and saw that there was a little scorching around it and what looked like a tiny feather. Then she noticed a cushion in the bath, a blackened hole through it. If the murderer had hoped that would muffle the sound of the gunshot they would have been disappointed. Perhaps one of the neighbours had heard something.
‘Lady Kilpatrick, if you’ve quite finished, may I see the body?’ Rasmussen’s tone was clipped, his annoyance barely concealed. Tessa straightened up and stepped to one side.
‘Shot in the back of the head, presumably while walking towards the lavatory. The killer tried to use a cushion as a makeshift silencer. That’s a misconception, so perhaps they are more of an amateur than this appears.’ Tessa reported her observations as the inspector bent to make the same examination as she had.
Death Will Find Me (A Tessa Kilpatrick Mystery, Book 1) Page 9