Quest for a Killer Page 16
She crowed mischievously and wagged a finger at me. ‘You are a sly one, Rose. Pretending when we met him at the circus that first evening that he was just a friend.’
‘And so he is,’ I said shortly. ‘He just needs somewhere to stay.’
‘I’ll bet,’ was her dry comment.
We went into Princes Street to look for suitable curtain material and she seemed less enthusiastic about shopping than usual, presumably because the subject of our quest, making curtains, was of little interest and belonged in the domestic province of the Rice Villa housekeeper: a treasure, I was told, who absolutely adored Rufus.
It was later as we were having tea together that another strange idea for her offhand behaviour occurred to me. I casually mentioned Peter and asked where he was.
In reply she almost snapped my head off. ‘Peter? I don’t know. Why ask about Peter now?’
And at that moment I thought I had made an important discovery.
In the short time we had known each other, much to my surprise, I was, in Elma’s own words, her ‘greatest friend’. I liked her sweet nature and generosity, and was prepared to forgive her snobbery, writing it off as a minor flaw, the result of our completely different upbringings: her family background, rarely mentioned, an estate in Surrey.
However, try as I might, I had never felt drawn to Peter, although the twins were so close. Now it occurred to me in a lightning flash of intuition why she was so upset about the possibility that Jack was moving back into my life: the reason was Peter.
I thought of all the occasions when she was desperately anxious that I should like him, insisting that we were to be great friends, always drawing the three of us together, while I was sure he did not enjoy those morning walks across the hill from Rice Villa.
They were just to please Elma. As I endeavoured to arouse her enthusiasm on that shopping expedition, it suddenly dawned upon me that Elma was less interested in curtain-making than matchmaking.
Inspired by the heroines of the Jane Austen novels we both loved, Elma had decided that I should marry her twin, Peter.
I also remembered that, without even a meeting, she stubbornly refused to accept the young woman Peter had been courting while in London. I could hardly with decency query Peter about her – we were not on such terms of intimacy – and as she was never mentioned I presumed that she had been discarded, whether or not at Elma’s insistence, when he came to Edinburgh, in the hope that he would marry her new best friend.
What a preposterous idea! I longed to have it out with her, tell her that life doesn’t work like that. To say tactfully, without causing offence or hurt, that I did not want, or would ever even consider, marrying her twin.
If I needed confirmation of her displeasure it was when neither she nor Peter appeared during the next few days.
I thought little about it, busy with a tape measure and scissors, and longing for a sewing machine; I had not been this domestic since my pioneering days with Danny when we were always trying to put a temporary home together just a step or two ahead of the next Apache raid.
I had stood back to admire the result of my new kitchen curtains when my life as a private detective suddenly gathered pace. A letter from a prospective client urgently requesting a meeting to undertake an investigation.
Paid work at last, another item for the logbook, another much needed addition to my income and off I went on my bicycle the short distance to South Newington.
Mrs Craig lived in one of the large houses almost next door to the convent of the Little Sisters of the Poor. An elegant lady, most welcoming, and I received a most civilised reception as I was led into the handsome drawing room, with afternoon tea brought by a uniformed maid. As we nibbled dainty sandwiches, she leant closer and whispered the details of her domestic problem.
A valuable ruby ring had gone missing and she suspected her personal maid, inherited by her three months ago, a long-serving much loved member of her recently deceased mother’s household.
Had she thought of informing the police? I asked. Mrs Craig shook her head vehemently. ‘There are reasons why I wish this to remain a private investigation. First out of respect for my mother, who was devoted to Winton.’
She shook her head sadly. ‘The stolen ring is very old. It is also, I think, rather ugly and old-fashioned. But it is a family heirloom, two hundred years old and my husband will take its loss very badly indeed. Mr Craig, I am afraid, will not hesitate to notify the police.’
The shudder which accompanied this said louder than any words that the domestic strife envisaged would be intolerable and was to be avoided at all costs. So making a note of the details, a description of the ring, I agreed to take it on.
My first visit, as always in cases of stolen jewellery, would be to the local pawnshops.
Wheeling my bicycle past the convent, I had just reached the road when I was hailed by Sister Clare. She was alone and heading in my direction.
‘I thought I recognised you, Mrs McQuinn. I am so glad to see you.’ Tactfully she did not enquire about my business with one of the convent’s neighbours. ‘I don’t wish to trouble you when you are so busy and,’ pausing she shook her head, ‘the incident is of little significance really.’
She looked at me, her anxious expression clearly asked that I be told, so I walked down the drive with her.
‘Every Sunday after mid-morning Mass we provide a soup kitchen for the lonely and needy in the district. Despite the opulence we see around us in this area, just down the road there are still many poor people, ex-soldiers among them and disabled veterans unable to obtain employment.’
I thought of Will Sanders as she added, ‘Poor starving folk, God help them.’ We had almost reached the convent steps. I waited patiently for her to get to the point.
‘This Sunday, Marie Ann – you remember her, our young novice we gave your cloak to; so kind of you! – well, she was on duty and came back in a bit of a state, poor girl. Terrified she was – I finally got it out of her, she had recognised among the men coming forward for their bowl of soup, the man with the scarred face…’
She paused dramatically. ‘The very same who accosted her in the garden that day. Of course, he was well wrapped up, scarf and so forth, and she could have been wrong, but I had no idea what should be done about it. Hardly a matter for the police, or for you, Mrs McQuinn, to deal with.’
I was in silent agreement. Alarming, maybe, but again not a shred of real evidence.
‘I thought, when I saw you, that I should mention it. I’ll tell her I talked to you.’
And as she stood there looking at me, she smiled, head on one side, and said a strange thing. ‘Marie Ann is so like you – I mean what you must have looked like as a young girl, both so small and neat, same height, that lovely curly hair.’
Just an ordinary polite remark. It wasn’t until much later that the significance struck me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
That evening I told Jack about the soup kitchen incident at the convent and the possible link with Joey, or Sam Wild as we now knew him.
Jack shrugged it aside. ‘You’re so dramatic about everything, Rose. You should watch it, not good for your profession, you know, all this intuition, when hard facts are what is needed.’
‘You haven’t got far with your hard facts up to now,’ I reminded him, feeling angry and misjudged.
‘Let’s look at it, then. A young novice at a convent full of nuns who probably imagine that every man who looks in their direction has rape in mind.’
‘That’s not fair,’ I protested. ‘This girl had been repeatedly raped by the men in her family; that was why she took to the convent – to escape.’
‘To escape all men,’ said Jack dryly. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. We are not all monsters, beasts—’
‘The scarred face,’ I interrupted.
‘I was coming to that. Think of how and why. I don’t imagine that among a lot of war veterans in Edinburgh, Sam Wild – if it was he – is the only one left wit
h a scarred face. There must be dozens of men wandering around who were invalided out of their regiments.’
We had finished supper and settled by the fire. Just like ‘the old days’, as Jack was pleased to call them.
There was one difference. Jack grumpily returned to the subject of Thane’s odd behaviour. The curtains had made little difference. Thane had soon discovered that he could get behind them and continue his vigilance undisturbed.
Thane’s daytime behaviour had also undergone a change. He spent much more time apart from me, out on the hill, although he returned before dark.
Jack wasn’t pleased. He regarded Thane very much as our dog in the same way as Rufus was regarded by Elma or as any owner regarded their domestic pet.
But this was not, and had never been, the case with Thane. Now, as always, the old fears returned to haunt me: that Thane didn’t belong to me – or to anyone else for that matter – and I must face the fact that he would not stay for ever.
One day he would return to the wild, and my new fear was that this change in Thane dated from Jack’s return. Did it indicate that, with a man about the house, I was safe and no longer needed his protection?
Relieved at the prospects of a new case, I set off down the road to the Pleasance; my first port of call would be the pawnshop adjacent to the tenement where the two girls were found.
It did not look promising, more rag-and-bone shop than one a servant would approach to dispose of a valuable stolen jewel.
The rather scruffy owner, bleary-eyed, unshaven, looked at me doubtfully when I asked to see rings. Somewhat reluctantly he produced a tray of sad-looking specimens, obviously wedding and signet rings handed in for a few coins.
When I said that it was a ruby ring I had in mind, he laughed, and looking at me as if I had gone mad, he pushed the rings away and said if that was the sort of thing his class of customers brought in then he’d soon be moving into premises in George Street.
As the old soldier, Will Sanders, lived just across the road I had brought a few provisions in my saddlebag. Parking the bicycle, I knocked at the door, usually open. There was no reply but a curtain next door twitched and a woman’s face looked out at me. Raising the sill she said, ‘Haven’t you heard, lass? The old chap has been taken to the infirmary. Had a bad turn, fell down in the street, tripped and broke his wrist. Poor old soul, can’t manage now. And no one to look after him anymore.’
I decided to visit him, especially as the infirmary he had been taken to was an extension of the hospital where Felix Miles Rice languished in a private ward. A boon for the lucky few, but that was still an aggravation for Elma. She insisted that he should be transferred to an expensive private hospital, but since the police were involved in watching over him, she had been forbidden this privilege.
I was not the only visitor that day. As I was walking towards the entrance I was almost bowled over by a familiar figure. Elma’s twin Peter. He would have rushed past me, but I seized his arm.
‘Hello. You’re in a mighty hurry,’ I said.
He shook off my hand. ‘Something awful – awful.’ And white-faced, without even his usual polite bow, he dashed across the road. I wondered what had happened; presumably, he had been making an abortive attempt to see Felix and had been turned away.
I continued into the reception area and was directed to the male ward where Will was awake; his right wrist in splints heavily bandaged, he was protesting to the nurse, wanting to know how long he was being kept in this place. She gave me a sympathetic look and said it was just for a day or two to see how he got on.
He brightened up when I handed the provisions over to him. He hated hospitals, remembering bitterly his last sojourn when he lost his leg at the Crimea. I managed to slide away from those reminiscences by persuading him to tell me something of his early days in the Highlands before he had gone into the army.
As I was leaving he said, ‘You’re a good lass, Mrs McQuinn, and there’s something here I would like you to have for safe keeping.’ From under his pillow he withdrew a wallet and took out a folded sealed envelope. ‘I wouldn’t want this to fall into the wrong hands. Belle would never want this to be made public. But someone should know the truth and I feel as if I can trust you.’
He paused and said dolefully, ‘Give me your promise that you won’t open it unless I don’t come out of here alive.’ And glancing at the line of beds, the sleeping or groaning occupants, ‘There’s some gay queer ones in here, they’d rob the sugar out of your tea if they could. And even some of the nurses, I don’t like the look of them, always after me, wanting to plump up my pillows – my wallet might not be safe from thieving hands. Not much they can pinch, but this – it’s precious.’
I promised to look after the letter. Did it contain money, or was it the missing suicide note from his granddaughter or Amy?
The rain had begun. The search for Mrs Craig’s ring at the city pawnbrokers must wait. I preferred not to get soaking wet on what promised to be a long and tedious task bicycling between city and suburban streets, locations with which I had become very well acquainted through my years as a lady investigator, for this was not by any means my first foray into the stolen-jewellery market.
When I reached home I found Jack already installed. He had left the central office early that afternoon and I heard him moving about upstairs. I thought for a moment, then decided to keep Will’s letter a secret.
Jack came down to greet me. ‘Just looking for something to keep my clothes in.’ I followed him into the great hall where he had discovered a new toy, deciding to acquaint himself with that lost cause, the typewriting machine.
Always fascinated by new gadgets, he was teaching himself and plodding slowly, finger by finger, as he searched for the right letters, assuring me that such ability would be extremely useful in my profession, for writing letters, sending bills and so forth.
Jack had bought paper and in no time at all the table was littered with his practice at mastering the keyboard which, judging by the numerous discarded attempts, was giving him a very hard time.
His garments, also discarded, were scattered around and the normally pristine and unused great hall with its stone walls, high windows and ancient tapestries now looked wincingly untidy.
Giving his request some thought, I decided that as Jack had moved in with only a valise for a day or two, this signified that he intended longer, indeed even a permanent residence. Wondering how I could tactfully raise that subject, I found him a discarded and not too large cabin trunk in one of the attics.
In my bedroom I realised Jack had been searching there for something suitable and the first thing I noticed was that some of the objects on my dressing table had been displaced. I have a sharp eye for such things and the studio photograph of Danny and me, taken in happier days in Arizona, had been moved from its central position.
When Jack and I were lovers, this one and only memento of Danny, irreplaceable and greatly treasured, had been tactfully relegated to a drawer, and in our new relationship as landlady and lodger, I had never considered removing it once more.
Jack obviously had. Another indication that he considered he was here for good. Danny was his dead rival, part of my past that must be banished for ever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
My new assignment was destined to be the shortest on record. A letter from Mrs Craig asked me to call as soon as possible.
Over the usual hospitable afternoon tea, I heard an extraordinary tale. After our meeting, she had been visited by an old friend of her mother who was passing through Edinburgh.
‘She was surprised to see Winton, the maid in question, and once we were alone she did not beat about the bush. She asked me if I ever lost any item of jewellery. When I told her about the ring, she said, oh yes, my mother also lost pieces of jewellery on an almost regular basis. However, if she informed Winton of the missing piece and asked her to keep a look out for it, in every instance the chances were that it would be replaced.
‘With nothing to lose I took her advice. I described the missing ring, this family heirloom, how I suspected it might have fallen off the dressing table and rolled away somewhere out of sight. I added how upset Mr Craig was.’
Mrs Craig stopped and laughed. ‘You will never credit this but the very next morning there was the ring. Not on the dressing table but back in its velvet case in the jewel box. And not a word of explanation.’
Pausing, she smiled wryly.
‘All of which, of course, proclaimed her guilt.’
‘She will have to go, of course,’ I said.
Mrs Craig shook her head. ‘No. I think we understand each other and perhaps it is some kind of a game with her. She is a good servant, and for my dear mother’s sake I want to keep her. I hope she got the message. If it happens again, however, I doubt whether I will have the same patience.’
Mrs Craig thanked me profusely for all my trouble and handed over my fee, which I was almost, but not quite, ashamed to take for one visit to a pawnshop.
The Indian summer continued. Thane and I enjoyed two delightful days outdoors without any appearance from Elma or Peter and, I must confess, I was rather relieved. The daily repetition of Elma’s tale of woe regarding Felix and the hospital authorities was rather wearisome and I did not get any fonder of her shrill little dog, nor he of me.
I felt almost carefree. In time, the crimes that now intrigued me would be laid aside, resolved one way or the other, cases closed, old news, and that would include the elusive Sam Wild. I had boundless optimism that another domestic investigation would soon arrive to tax my detection abilities and decided to make the most of this peaceful interlude.
And, as so often happens when we feel overconfident, this was merely the lull in the approaching storm.
A storm from which my life would never again emerge to greet with the same tranquillity those cloudless blue skies.