Enter Second Murderer (An Inspector Faro Mystery No.1)

  Enter Second Murderer

  An Inspector Faro Mystery

  by

  Alanna Knight

  ALANNA KNIGHT has written more than fifty novels, (including fifteen in the successful Inspector Faro series), four works of non-fiction, numerous short stories and two plays since the publication of her first book in 1969. Born and educated in Tyneside, she now lives in Edinburgh. She is a founding member of the Scottish Association of Writers and Honorary President of the Edinburgh Writer's Club.

  I've travelled the world twice over,

  Met the famous: saints and sinners,

  Poets and artists, kings and queens,

  Old stars and hopeful beginners,

  I've been where no-one's been before,

  Learned secrets from writers and cooks

  All with one library ticket

  To the wonderful world of books.

  (c) JANICE JAMES.

  ENTER SECOND MURDERER

  A novel of crime and detection set in Victorian Edinburgh. The events which decide Detective Inspector Faro to re-open the sensational case of "The Gruesome Convent Murders" lead him into a bewildering labyrinth of passions, betrayal and greed concealed behind the lace curtains and respectable middle-class exteriors of Edinburgh society, as he re-examines and unravels the almost forgotten clues. Danger is never far away and the city's other face, that shady world of ever erupting violence threatens to engulf his own household.

  Chapter 1

  Patrick Hymes was tried and convicted at the High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh for the murders of Sarah Gibson (or Hymes) and Lily Goldie. He made his exit from the world on 11 May 1870, a day that promised to be bright and cheerful for everyone but him. With the noose about his neck, to the accompaniment of a single blackbird's tumultuous song and without a single human tear as requiem, he went into eternity protesting his innocence of the second murder.

  There was little known about Patrick Hymes, an Irish labourer whose pretty young wife had abandoned him and their two small children to make a new life for herself as maidservant in an Edinburgh convent. There the nuns were ignorant of her moral lapses, for Sarah Hymes was, in the parlance of the day, no better than she should be.

  Patrick Hymes, a simple uneducated man, showed remarkable industry and ingenuity in tracking down his runaway wife, and luring her out for an evening stroll on the pretext of a reconciliation gift. He knew that baubles were the one way to Sarey's grasping heart. When his attentions threatened to become more familiar, as was his right, they quarrelled. His manly pride insulted, his role of husband and father belittled, Patrick dispatched Sarey by strangulation on the highest ridge of Salisbury Crags.

  Hymes had, according to evidence at the trial, hoped to escape justice by her demise being classified as an unfortunate accident on a narrow path in an area notoriously prone to landslides. Even a cursory postmortem examination, however, revealed suspicious marks of violence upon her person and bruises about her throat.

  There was enough evidence in the subsequent murder of Lily Goldie, in similar circumstances, to convince everyone that she had also been the victim of Patrick Hymes. According to the newspapers, townsfolk were afraid to sleep in their beds at night.

  "GRUESOME CONVENT MURDERS" ran the headlines, promising an epidemic of horrible strangulations. The police were assisted in their enquiries from a totally unexpected quarter: the troubled conscience of Patrick Hymes, who appeared all atremble at the Central Office of Edinburgh City Police and dramatically confessed to his late wife's murder. On producing proof of identity and evidence to link him with the murdered woman, there were sighs of relief all round. But even as the report was being hastily written in the Central Office, came the assassin's vehement denial.

  "Lily Goldie? Who's Lily Goldie? Never heard of her."

  The evidence was read to him. Only two days earlier, the body of Lily Goldie had been discovered at the foot of Salisbury Crags, some hundred yards from the spot where Sarah Hymes was murdered. A remarkable coincidence made even more remarkable by the fact that she too had been strangled, not manually but with a scarf knotted about her neck. And stretching coincidence to its utmost: Lily Goldie was also employed, as a teacher, at the Convent of the Sisters of St. Anthony in the Newington area.

  Hymes was now eagerly accepted as Lily Goldie's slayer and sternly advised to admit to both murders and thereby make it easier for himself. Hymes continued to be outraged by the suggestion, expressing himself in violent language which was subsequently monitored for the ears and eyes of those with more sheltered upbringing as, "I don't care what she was or who she was. I never heard of her. You find out who done her in—it weren't me."

  Resisting pleas that another confession would make a lot of people happy, and ignoring assurances that swinging for two murders was no more painful than swinging for one, he shouted, "Easier for meself, you mean easier for yous. Ties it up all neatly." And stabbing a finger at the unfortunate constable taking down his statement, "You can write that in your—evidence."

  Refusing to be cajoled or threatened, Hymes remained stubborn on the matter of Lily Goldie.

  For Detective Inspector Jeremy Faro, the case of Patrick Hymes, double murderer, meant a few less illusions about a depraved humanity, one more in the annals of sordid domestic crimes he had investigated during his twenty years with the Edinburgh Police Force.

  On the eve of Hymes's dramatic confession Faro unfortunately had been struck down by a typhus-like illness, not altogether rare in Edinburgh City and with consequences fatal for those of less robust constitution than his own.

  His stepson, newly graduated Dr.Vincent Beaumarcher Laurie, had returned home to find him lying on the floor writhing with pain. The most cursory examination revealed a condition too advanced to respond to home treatment. Hailing a passing gig, he rushed Faro into hospital for immediate and drastic treatment.

  Faro was grateful. He knew that he owed his life to Vince's presence of mind and the great good fortune of his leaving Dr. Kellar's surgery earlier than usual that afternoon.

  Vince had watched over him until he was out of danger, and as soon as he was able to return home again had questioned him closely. Had any of his colleagues suffered in a similar fashion?

  That had been Faro's first question to his visitors from the Central Office. Heads were shaken, but Vince refused to be convinced.

  "It is as I suspected. Stepfather. Someone was trying to get rid of you. Someone who had it in for you."

  "What an idea. I am hardly that important." Faro laughed weakly. "More likely one of Mrs. Mallet's mutton pies, from the shop we patronise at the Central Office, was the culprit."

  The illness left him weak in body, depressed in spirits. Much as he disliked leaving a case before the trial, he felt too sick to protest. Suddenly the detective's long hours, where strong legs and stronger stomachs were absolute necessities, palled on him. Vince insisted that he must go away and convalesce, a suggestion received by Superintendent McIntosh of the Edinburgh City Police with more than his usual warmth. Patting Faro's shoulder heavily, he said, "You are too valuable to lose. Faro. Take a holiday, you deserve it. Why not go home for a while—as long as you like," he added, with unaccustomed generosity.

  Home was Kirkwall, in the Orkney Isles, where his two little daughters, Rose and Emily, aged eight and six, had lived with their grandmother since Lizzie died.

  "Absolutely not," said Vince. "Much too far for you to travel—and a rough crossing is the last thing you need in your condition. Don't even consider it. Besides, you know how Grandmama fusses. How about your Aunt Isa? Her nursing experience woul
d be admirable."

  Aunt Isa, nanny to several generations of middle-class children, had married a gardener at Balmoral Castle. A widow for many years, she lived in an estate cottage at Crathie, where Deeside's fresh air and some excellent fishing aided Faro's recovery better than the abundant good food, which still revolted him. Edinburgh and the existence of violent murder seemed remote as the moon and stars, impossible among those peaceful hills, and he hoped all would be resolved before his return.

  He found instead that Hymes, his execution imminent, had made a last request to speak to Inspector Faro.

  Faro went reluctantly, arriving at the cell as the priest was leaving. He had never overcome his distaste for the barbaric biblical law of an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth and a life for a life, especially in the case of a man who, far from being an habitual criminal, for one instant in his life lost control over man's most primitive emotion.

  As he sat opposite Hymes, he felt sure he was right. There was something about a killer's eyes, a destroyer who kills wantonly, a quality that defied words but which his intuition told him was lacking in the man before him.

  "You're a fair-minded peeler, I'm told. And as sure as God is me witness, I am no cold-blooded killer of innocent women," said Hymes desperately. "I killed my Sarey. That I freely admit and am willing to swing for the faithless whore that she was. The world is well rid of her. But that other lass—whatever they say, I never even laid eyes on her, much less a hand. Sure, it's a pack of lies they're pinnin' on me. Someone's made it look as if I done her in too. They needn't have bothered—I swing tomorrow—I've made my confession, I've received absolution for my crime and I'm not sorry to be quit of this world. I loved my Sarey and I'll love her with my dying breath-aye, and curse her in it too. But I'd never killed that other one." He looked around the tiny cell, wild-eyed.

  "Listen to me, Inspector. What I'm saying is the truth. Sarey would be alive if I hadn't a temper on me, always in me nature to be a violent man but only with her on account of her wicked nature. When we went out walking, so peaceful and agreeable like it started, I thought I could talk her round to coming home with me, back to our two poor bairns. But, Jezebel that she was, she laughed at me, scorned and cursed me, and when I tried to shake some sense into her, no different than I've done a score of times afore, I ended up with me hands around her throat, throttling the bitch."

  Hymes paused, looking at his hands spread out before him on the table as if he could not believe that they had performed the monstrous task. "I don't remember anything till I heard her choking—the next moment she'd gone such a funny colour. Dear Mother of God, be merciful to me," he whispered, and, laying his head on his folded arms, he sobbed.

  "I didn't know she was dead, I swear it. It's just like I told you the first time when I gave meself up. I was that shocked I let go of her, as God's me witness, we were that near the edge of the path, she just went limp and rolled over the cliff on her own account. I've told them over and over. I never meant to kill Sarey, it was just an accident that could happen to any man on that narrow path.

  "Not like that Lily, that strangling her with her scarf—now that was deliberate murder," he added self-righteously as he waited, eager for some response from Faro, who could think of no words of comfort that were not either trite or inappropriate to the occasion. Faro could always put himself, however uncomfortably, into the criminal's shoes. What, he thought, if it had been my Lizzie? Would I not have experienced the same murderous rage of a husband and father betrayed, the same impulse to destroy?

  Since the labouring classes most frequently indulged in the pastime of wife-beating, murder often became violent chastisement that went too far. Such murders, Faro firmly believed, constituted no threat to the community, but the society who would share his humanitarian views was not yet born.

  If the public who, ten years earlier, had rushed to see public executions, had seen and heard this pathetic emaciated wife-slayer (who bore little resemblance to the police-court drawings of a robust, fresh-faced labourer), they could never for a moment have believed that every female in Newington was in danger from such a creature.

  Faro's silence was misunderstood. "I see you don't believe me. Inspector, either," he said sadly, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter for, even if you did, it can't change anything now. But God will believe me. He knows that murder's not in me nature and that I'm a peace-loving God-fearing man. Ask anyone who knows me two bairns, the good father that I am to them, denying them nothing, patient as a saint. Sure an' I know I'll go to hell for the cruel thing I did to Sarey and all the saints' prayers can't save me from the gallows tomorrow. But better to die than let Sarey destroy other happy homes and spoil men's lives like she did mine."

  There was an Othello-like dignity about the shabby little Irishman who had killed for love gone wrong, and despite the evidence of that second murder Faro had an unhappy feeling that he had listened to the truth and was assisting a miscarriage of justice, as well as ignoring the important and very disquieting implication raised by Hymes's protestations of innocence: the existence of a second murderer.

  Returning to the Central Office, he took down the remarkably small packet which contained an account of the trial, and found that in retrospect the case made very curious reading. There were too many coincidences by far. From his long association with criminals, Faro suspected that the solution with Hymes as the double murderer was just a shade too convenient.

  Superintendent McIntosh, a man of large proportions with a voice like an army sergeant major, looked up from his desk.

  "Seen him, have you? Still protesting, is he?"

  "Yes. Frankly, I'm a bit uneasy about the whole thing. Doesn't it seem strangely out of character that Hymes should have murdered Lily Goldie? I mean, it was quite motiveless."

  "Motiveless? Of course it wasn't motiveless. The man's a damned villain. Totally unreliable. Can't expect people of that class to reason things out. Blood lust, that's what it was. His wife was a whore, so it follows that any woman like her is a whore. Simple for anyone to understand that." And at Faro's doubtful expression, he thundered, "Do you know what you're suggesting, man?"

  "I'm only suggesting further enquiries."

  "Further enquiries? You must be mad. Authority has to be appeased and the public's demand for justice satisfied with a hanging. And in the very unlikely event that Hymes didn't murder Goldie, he still has to hang for the self-confessed murder of his wife."

  "He claims it was an accident—manslaughter rather than murder."

  McIntosh banged his fist on the desk. "Ridiculous, Faro, the case has been tried and he's proved guilty and that will have to satisfy you as well as everyone else." He paused. "Are you suggesting that in your absence there has been a miscarriage of justice?" When Faro was silent, he said, "You'll have to produce a second murderer." And jabbing a finger at Faro, he said, "And you'll have a mighty hard job doing that, I fancy. You won't get much help from the police either, quite frankly, because any idea that Hymes didn't kill Goldie puts forward the nasty suggestion that we have failed in our duty and there's a murderer still on the loose, roaming the streets of Edinburgh, with other innocent lives—particularly young female lives—in danger."

  With a clumsy attempt at placating Faro, he said, "Be reasonable, man. A public investigation, an admission of what you suspect in the newspapers and there would be chaos. You've been very ill, I realise. And you've had your holidays. The High Court is almost into summer recess. Sheriffs have families and domestic obligations too," he added plaintively.

  Faro suppressed a smile, remembering that Mrs. McIntosh, though pint-sized, was a Tartar, who would not hesitate to resort to husband-beating and similar violence upon her husband, should he dare suggest cancelling or delaying the annual family holiday at North Berwick.

  Faro sighed. It was fairly obvious that such events, in the absence of the senior detective, had led to a hasty conviction which assumed that Hymes, in common with most murderers, was a consumm
ate liar, who wished only to embarrass and perturb the police further and hamper their investigations.

  "It's all there for you to read, Faro."

  Faro glanced at the papers. "He doesn't bear much likeness now to the drawings. Did he ever look like this?"

  McIntosh shifted uncomfortably. "Oh yes. But he was determined not to eat until he could get someone to believe his fantastic story. We didn't think force-feeding was called for in the circumstances—I mean, once he had been found guilty." He smirked awkwardly. "Seemed quite set on dying, although we tried to tell him that hanging's easier for a heavy man-takes a shorter time than for a light one."

  Faro cut short these unsavoury explanations. "If, as you tried to prove, Lily Goldie was murdered because she had seen Hymes visiting the kitchen and had been a witness to the pair departing together for that last ill-fated walk on Salisbury Crags, why didn't she inform the police during the routine questioning which I conducted myself? She seemed baffled and shocked as everyone else at St. Anthony's, her statement made no mention of lurking strangers."

  "Oh for heaven's sake, Faro. The man was found guilty. The case is closed. And you take my advice if you know what's good for you. Let sleeping dogs—and hanged murderers—lie.''

  Chapter 2

  Faro walked briskly down the High Street, its eight-storeyed "lands" looming above his head. This was market day and the noise of vendors, the yelling of fishwives in from Newhaven, the jostling of the crowds and the smell of hot, unwashed flesh were too much for him. Aware only that he was badly in need of some air, fresh and bracing, he hurried down past the Palace of Holyroodhouse. The romance and stormy passions lost for ever behind those grey walls never failed to move him, associated as they were with the story of his beloved Mary, Queen of Scots, beset by villains, tricked and cheated, betrayed. He often wished he had lived in those turbulent days and had been able to wield a sword in her name.