Dangerous Pursuits (A Rose McQuinn Mystery)

  Dangerous Pursuits

  A Rose McQuinn 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.

  DANGEROUS PURSUITS

  Out walking on Arthur's Seat, high above the city of Edinburgh, Rose McQuinn discovers the body of a woman in the ruins of St Anthony's Chapel. On her return to the scene there is no evidence of either the victim or the local constable who had taken down Rose's story at the scene of the crime. Rose finds the normally sympathetic Detective Sergeant Jack Macmerry doubtful over the validity of her story, but Rose is convinced that she had come across a murder. Her ensuing discreet investigation into the mystery soon turns into a more dangerous pursuit...

  Chapter One

  It was to be a bad day.

  It began with one death, followed by a second, and had I been superstitious and believed deaths came in threes, time was to show that I had a very lucky escape in not being the third.

  Just before breakfast I buried Cat in the back garden. Thane went with me, two mourners at an old animal's funeral.

  'An old animal?' friends would certainly ask. Surprised at my sorrow, they would smile pityingly, as if to admit such feeling was unnecessary and somehow wasteful except for humans taken in their prime, and there were always plenty of them. For elderly pets there was a different kind of grief. And for relatives a special cut-off clause, especially if they had survived long enough into antiquity to qualify for 'having a good innings'.

  I had no excuse. I had only known Cat for six months, since I moved into Solomon's Tower that summer of 1895. She presented herself at my door, an ancient moth-eaten mummified feline on unsteady legs, a leftover from the last indulgent cat-owner who had been dead for several years.

  With careful nurturing this decrepit hissing creature more dead than alive had been reborn into a purring pussycat by the fire, the companion of my evenings, sitting on my lap as I read; even her shabby fur had been restored to the ghost of its one-time elegance.

  And now she was dead. I had found her stiff and cold in her favourite chair when I came down to breakfast. And I had wept. And wept.

  It was a long time since I had shed so many tears, believing that I had used up such floods of emotion when my baby had died and my husband Danny had disappeared in Arizona. Now Cat's death coincided with that bitter anniversary and reopened a wound that bled afresh and would never heal.

  The reservoir of tears filled up again. I'd never be able to explain it to my friends and even Jack, sympathetic and offering a comfortable shoulder to cry on, would be somewhat bewildered in his practical no-nonsense policeman's way.

  But Thane, the deerhound who had his home somewhere in the vast and secret crags of Arthur's Seat behind the Tower, Thane understood. Waiting for me at the kitchen door, he sniffed at the tiny corpse wrapped in a blanket, raised a paw with an almost human sigh that said everything.

  As I said, it was an awful day. In sympathy, the autumn weather wept with me. Day after day, Arthur's Seat was in a capricious mood, majestic and brooding, wreaths of heavy mist slowly descending from its lofty summit to engulf the garden. Then the house would disappear and, shivering, I'd close all the windows and look for further icy draughts to seal.

  In earlier days I'd learned to live with all the sudden violent changes of temperament that made up Edinburgh's weather. And still I loved it, with no wish ever to live anywhere else than in Solomon's Tower, this magical ancient place that seemed to have evolved from the extinct volcano that men called Arthur's Seat. A magic that contained a deerhound like Thane who had once saved my life, but preferred to remain invisible to practically everyone else.

  Except Jack. Jack at least knew Thane was real. He had systematically searched every square foot of the vast mountain with its craggy rocks and secret caves for traces of this mysterious animal who came and went at will. Or so he said. But he had never found any evidence of where or how he lived.

  This was a blow to the pride of Detective Sergeant Jack Macmerry who must have an answer to everything, his entire life dedicated to solving mysteries, mostly of a violent nature. I would often find him staring at Thane reproachfully, as if the deerhound should provide some clues to the questions the law officer was dying to ask.

  As for me, based on the recent past's bitter experiences, I take nothing for granted, happy to accept Thane as I accept Jack, as a transient part of my existence. Enjoy them both, be grateful and make no demands on a future which might not exist.

  This philosophy of course does not please Jack who wishes to put our relationship on to a permanent basis, with a church wedding and mutual assurances of 'till death do us part'.

  Sometimes I wonder if this conventional attitude has to do with career prospects and attitudes expected in the Edinburgh City Police, for one nursing hopes of rising to the rank of Detective Inspector. Respectability plays a considerable role in decisions by Chief Constables and selection boards. If it were widely known that Jack had a 'widow lady', to put it politely, living in Solomon's Tower, this might prove a fatal handicap to his future promotion prospects.

  Perhaps I am being unkind, making excuses for my own reasons for not wishing to marry Jack. I love him, as much as I am capable of loving anyone except Danny McQuinn, for although and officially designated 'widow', in my own mind my husband stubbornly remains 'missing' only. I refuse to consider any finality until proved beyond possible doubt. Until the dream comes no longer where one day I open the door and find him waiting there.

  Another factor against marrying Jack is that I have embarked on a career of my own. A lady investigator of discretion, tracking down philandering husbands, thieving servants, missing relatives and wills and even the occasional missing cat or dog.

  'Nothing too large or too small. Discretion guaranteed' is how my business card describes my activities, which now provide a modest living, a somewhat irregular income based on word of mouth, the recommendation of satisfied clients.

  But try to explain 'career' to Jack and he smiles indulgently, his lecture on the attendant perils of such a dangerous hobby for a woman ready at hand.

  'Hobby indeed!'

  My indignation is met with an indulgent smile. 'Let's face it. Rose. You're an untrained female who had a lucky first break-'

  'Lucky, indeed!'

  My first investigation into the brutal murder of a Newington maid was very nearly my last. Frequently stressing those almost fatal consequences, Jack points out that I should not be carried away by modest success and let it go to my head. The lecture always ends to the effect that in future I must promise to leave the law and solving of criminal activities to the police. A promise I refuse to make.

  'If you must do something,' says Jack, that sad shake of his head indicating his better judgement, that the proper place for a woman (and in particular this woman) is in the home, 'you could go back to teaching. Edinburgh's expanding rapidly and in the new areas, like Newington, there will soon be lots of opportunities.'

  Defiantly I shake my head and the argument reaches stalemate. He finds it difficult to comprehend that a return to schoolteaching, which occupied me before following Danny McQuinn to America, would be neither adequate recompense nor substitution.

  What Jack failed to realize was that crime-solving was in my blood, doubtless inherited from my famous fathe
r Chief Inspector Jeremy Faro of the Edinburgh City Police. From childhood, he had encouraged me to observe, deduce and always ask how and why, without of course realizing the significant part it would play in my future. Sometimes I am inclined to think that his influence is why I decline to marry Jack. He reminds me too much of my father - not physically, for Pappa is as umistakably, dramatically Viking in appearance as Jack is the typical sandy-haired, high-cheekboned Lowland Scot. But in sense of dedication they are identical.

  Already Jack's sense of duty rings alarming bells from my childhood, of last-minute cancellations of outings with Pappa.

  'The inspector is out on a case' were words we dreaded from Mrs Brook, as with a sigh she abandoned her kitchen and, putting on her bonnet and cape, prepared to deputize in his absence, a poor substitute as far as sister Emily and I were concerned. That was if stepbrother Vince, already a young medical student, had a more ready and feasible excuse at hand.

  And that, I feared, would be my life with Jack, a repetition of days gone by. I knew what to expect, a policeman's daughter who had also once been a policeman's wife.

  But Danny was different. I was twelve years old and he - ten years my senior - was Pappa's young constable who had saved my life in a kidnapping by one of Inspector Faro's mortal enemies. Hero-worship became love that never wavered for the ambitious detective sergeant who had gone to that land of opportunity, America, to seek his fortune. And, it appeared, to die in Arizona while serving with the Pinkerton Detective Agency.

  The habit and love of a lifetime were hard to break. I had - and still - loved Danny, determined to follow him, to the ends of the earth if necessary, to face any hardship, even danger and death. And so it had been. Not something I had strength to face a second time, to make welcome the agonies of uncertainties.

  I was not the stuff that martyrs are made of but it seemed that I would have to make up my mind and decide about Jack. And soon. For Fate is not patient, prepared to wait in the wings for mortals to make up their minds.

  Other issues are thrown in to aid decisions, where we would hesitate and go on dreaming. In my case Fate equalled Nancy, Mrs Brook's cousin's daughter. Mrs Brook had been housekeeper at our family home in Sheridan Place and on my return to Edinburgh I had used my influence to secure Nancy a situation as a children's nurse in Newington only to discover that she and Jack had been childhood sweethearts.

  Jack assured me that was all they had ever been, but it had become painfully clear to me in the past five months that although such might well be true for him, my powers of observation suggested that Nancy had other ideas.

  Nancy was in love with him. When they met by accident here in Solomon's Tower I saw all the recognizable signs, that Nancy loved Jack as I loved Danny McQuinn. She had probably loved him since childhood too and at thirty years old, even for a sweet pretty woman, prospects of marriage were diminishing rapidly.

  Jack, manlike, was totally unaware of the effect he had on her and lately, because I wished to loosen the strings of his attachment to me, I had resorted to throwing them together. Although I didn't want to lose Jack completely, since I enjoyed his company and, when I needed a man to love me, I wasn't reluctant to share my bed with him.

  Nancy, I was sure, knew nothing of this side of our relationship. I had not considered the possible outcome of my actions, that Jack might tire of trying to talk me into marriage and in despair realize what he was missing in Nancy. Here was a woman who loved him, and would be prepared to devote her entire life to his comfort, an excellent wife and mother of his children.

  I found lately that Jack talked a lot about Nancy. When I was busy on one of my own investigations he would say, 'I might take Nancy then, if you don't mind.'

  And I was so willing. Watching them go down the road together smiling happily in each other's company, I wondered uneasily what I had set in motion and realized that I must suffer the consequences, for such is the fate of mortals who meddle in other folk's destinies.

  Whether by affinity or design, Nancy was fast becoming one of my friends and, getting to know her better, Jack had discovered she had secret longings to be a singer.

  The possessor of a naturally good voice, she had immediately joined the parish church choir in Newington and had been auditioned for an amateur group who specialized in the popular Gilbert and Sullivan operas and were at this moment rehearsing The Pirates of Penzance.

  And there romance had found pretty Nancy. I was in her confidence and wondered how she was faring with the bass who played the Sergeant of Police.

  I would swear she blushed when I asked her in front of Jack: a darting look that spoke louder than words.

  Jack was amused by her conquest, which must have sent her into despair. There's nothing worse than being teased about a man by the very one you secretly long for.

  She confided in me that Desmond Marks was unhappy with his wife. All was not well at home, according to him, and it was only his love of singing and the escape provided by the Amateur Opera Society and Nancy's friendship that kept him sane.

  'What should I do, Rose?' she asked.

  'Have nothing to do with him,' I said firmly.

  'How can I when we meet every week?' she protested.

  'What I mean is, have nothing to do with him outwith the opera,' I said sternly. 'Don't get involved in his personal problems.'

  She sighed. 'But I am sorry for him. Rose. His wife - she doesn't sound like a very nice person at all.'

  I refrained from replying, 'You should hear her side of the story, before you pass judgement,' and asked instead, 'Is he very handsome?'

  Nancy dimpled. 'Divinely. And such a lovely voice. He really should be on the London stage, a professional singer. But he is too cautious for that. He says he needs his situation in the insurance office and cannot afford to take chances.'

  'Any children?'

  Nancy shook her head. 'Alas, no. There was a little girl but she died of diphtheria.'

  'Long ago?'

  'A few years back, but his wife has never got over it.'

  I thought about that, a bond of sympathy with Desmond's unhappy wife. Bereaved motherhood was something I understood all too well.

  'I gather they are still fairly young' I said cautiously.

  Nancy frowned, considered me as if I might be a yardstick on which to calculate ages. 'About our age, Rose.'

  'Then perhaps there will be more children?'

  'No,' said Nancy obstinately. 'They cannot have any more and besides, since the wee girl died - er, well, Desmond's wife has - er, well...' She looked so confused I helped her out:

  'They don't sleep together any more?'

  'Oh yes, they share the same bedroom,' she said brightly.

  I put a hand on her arm. 'Nancy, I was using the term in the biblical sense.' And thought, Here were confidences indeed from Desmond.

  My experience was that unless a married man thought there was something to be gained from it, such as encouragement from a woman being wooed, they were not so forthcoming about their intimate matrimonial troubles.

  Nancy meanwhile looked uncomfortable. 'You will keep this to yourself, Rose,' she said sternly. 'I mean that in the best possible way,' she added hastily. 'I know you aren't a gossip but I wouldn't like Desmond to know I talked about him to you and Jack.'

  As Jack wasn't present I felt it was an unnecessary warning. I looked at her. Such a sweet trusting girl was Nancy, she deserved happiness and the first step was being wise to the ways of married men.

  'Jack would understand, of course,' she said. 'He is such a dear good man. You know that.'

  Oh yes, I thought cynically and wondered if she was really as innocent as she pretended about our relationship.

  'A bidey-in' was the perfect expression to describe him - one of Pappa's favourite expressions, picked up while staying with his favourite auntie in Aberdeenshire. That had not occurred to Nancy. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, perhaps the virgin mind does not permit images of one's friends who are lov
ers and of what goes on behind closed bedroom doors.

  Anyway, to leave the unhappy Desmond for the moment...

  I had done my best to persuade Nancy that he was bad news and I hoped most earnestly that she would resolve the problem sensibly. Especially as she had just recently left the situation I found for her: a happy ending since her employer in Newington, Mrs Lily Harding, had remarried and gone to live in Glasgow.

  A lady of some influence among her first husband's business associates, she had recommended Nancy to the household of General Sir Angus Carthew, who had served the Queen in India and had been decorated for bravery. Just before his retirement and return to Edinburgh, he had married the daughter of a fellow officer who had died fighting the Chitralis in the Himalayas.

  The name Sir Angus Carthew was frequently to be encountered in the local press, for he served on many committees and was a patron of the arts and of numerous worthy charitable institutions.

  No hints of any bairns forthcoming despite the difference in age and a wife young enough to be her husband's daughter. This was not uncommon however and, perhaps as consolation, the childless couple were at present fostering Sir Angus's nephew and niece.

  Their father Gerald Carthew had already made a name for himself as an archaeologist and explorer. He had been about to lead a scientific expedition into the polar regions, when his wife had died suddenly on the eve of his departure - the result of an unexpected complication following a minor operation.

  The distraught bereft father was in desperate need of support and, feeling that the most prudent measure to ease his predicament would be to see him off on the work to which his entire life had been dedicated, Sir Angus and Lady Carthew stepped in and gallantly offered to care for the two young children until their father returned and could make the appropriate domestic arrangements. This information about the Carthews' domestic life came not from the newspaper but from Nancy by way of Mrs Laing, the cook-housekeeper.