The Inspector's Daughter (A Rose McQuinn Mystery) Page 18

  lt was nonsense, nonsense. I could not - dared not - give the suggestion credence. The crucifix seemed to be burning my hand.

  Wolf Rider said it had belonged to the man Wild Elk killed, a white man but not an American-

  I dared not believe that it was the same one Danny had worn.

  'Hello there!' It was Jack, at that moment, the worst and yet the best possible moment for an interruption to restore sanity to the madness swirling around in my brain.

  He strolled across the garden, looking at us both curiously, perhaps aware of the strange atmosphere he had walked into. 'Got everything you need, did you, sir?'

  Wolf stood up, nodded. 'Everything Wild Elk needed for his soul's rest and peace.' Turning, he took my hand, bowed over it. His smile linked Jack and me, as if he had another vision that he would have liked to talk about. Then he was leaving, going away. He knew so little about me. I wanted to tell him all about Danny, have confirmation for my fears.

  God knows what I wanted. But whatever it was, the moment of closeness between us was past, as if it had never been and had turned us into strangers again, we who could have been so much to each other in some other world.

  For ever, now, we would walk our own paths. They would never cross again.

  Wild Elk was laid to rest in the local cemetery, as the evidence of wearing a crucifix entitled him to Christian burial. This decision must have relieved Chief Wolf Rider and the members of his troop, since the Sioux manner of laying the dead out on high trestles and allowing the buzzards and wild creatures to consume his remains would not have amused Her Majesty, nor those who enjoyed pleasant Sunday afternoon walks in Queen's Park.

  'On the other hand,' Jack reminded me. 'You can never be sure. The days of public executions are over, but they are still within living memory. And we must not forget that they were once highly regarded as a suitable outing the whole family could enjoy. You can never tell anything with human nature. There is a touch of the ghoul in all of us.'

  The funeral ceremony made headlines in the local newspaper and produced a rash of letters signed ‘Indignant' and 'Disgusted' from city worthies who considered this burial unethical.

  'The police were also present,' Jack told me. 'But with Wild Elk in his grave we are no nearer to solving Molly Dunn's murder, further away than ever. In fact, this promises to be another unsolved crime where we'll always have difficulty in persuading folk that it wasn't "that savage Indian".

  'Wolf Rider tells me that once the police have arrested Daisy Howe's killer the circus moves on, down to England. I think they'll be glad to go.' He smiled. 'He is joint owner with Howe and he's been very helpful. A fine man, didn't you think?'

  'Very,' was my only comment.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Each morning I expected to see Thane loping down the hill, but it seemed that the Tower had been deserted by my two strange creatures and I wondered sadly whether I'd ever see either of them again. Although I was almost persuaded to have grave doubts about Thane's existence, Cat had always seemed real enough.

  I concluded that animals are very sensitive to deaths and that the recent demise of Wild Elk in the stable had scared them off. I hadn't seen Cat since; although I put out her bowls of milk, they remained untouched and I decided that she had returned to the wild again.

  I couldn't blame her. I didn't care to linger in the empty stable either. It would always be associated in my mind with the horrifying discovery of a dead man lying there.

  Considering that clearing out the straw might make me feel better about putting the building to some use, armed with broom, matches and a sense of purpose, I opened the back door to find Cat sitting on the step.

  At the sight of me she miaowed plaintively.

  She hadn't an ounce of menace left in her but I suspected she was very hungry.

  'Come along - come inside.'

  Meekly she followed me into the kitchen for the first time, looking around cautiously, tail arched. When I put down the milk she lapped it up eagerly.

  Watching her, I realised I couldn't put her out into the stable again. Nor did I wish to, as I remembered an old straw laundry basket at the back of the cupboard with a shabby, faded velvet cushion no doubt overlooked from Sir Hedley's day. Setting it by the fireside, I said: 'Welcome to your new home, Cat.'

  She needed no second invitation. Leaping into the basket, she sniffed at it delicately then, looking up at me, she purred like a steam kettle. Was I hearing right? Such progress! After a minute and careful inspection, she settled down and allowed me to stroke her head. As I did so I noticed that her coat was in better condition too. So I hoped the fleas had abandoned her for a more insalubrious host.

  I was to have tea with Freda once more. She came by in the carriage especially to see me, she said, hoping that she would find me at home and if not then prepared to leave her card. She was the last person I had any wish to see as I heaped straw on to a fire outside the stable.

  Politely ignoring my dishevelled state, she said: 'I'm on my way to the Summer Fete at Duddingston church. Perhaps you would care to accompany me.'

  Heaving some remaining straw on to the blaze, I was seized by a fit of coughing which rendered me temporarily speechless.

  'You don't need to do that kind of menial work. Rose,' she stated severely. 'That's the gardener's job.'

  'I enjoy the exercise, Freda.'

  'You don't need any exercise, my dear. You're far too thin as it is,' she continued with an unmistakable note of envy. And, turning her critical gaze towards the kitchen door: 'The Tower is quite attractive at close quarters and I am sure you have made some remarkable improvements,' she added wistfully as the reason for her impromptu visit became clear. Curiosity had driven her to see how I was living.

  I took up the challenge. 'Perhaps you would like to come in for a while, if you aren't in too great a hurry.'

  'Oh, yes, indeed. A few minutes. If that doesn't inconvenience you.'

  'Not at all,' I said dousing the last of the blaze. 'My work is finished now.'

  As she trailed behind me, frowning, her eyes darting everywhere, I refused to apologise for accumulated dust as she ran her hand over the parlour windowsill and withdrew it hastily. ‘How are your plans to employ a maid? I am sure I could find you a very reliable person with excellent references among my acquaintances.'

  I declined firmly, saying that when I was quite certain of my future plans I would let her know.

  'You are considering going to Orkney, to your sister?'

  I nodded vaguely with a speedy change of subject, helped by her favourable impression of the parlour, despite lack of polish, as she commented on the handsome furniture from Sheridan Place.

  The comfortable stone-flagged kitchen with its whitewashed walls also met with her approval. 'Quite a transformation, I'm sure.' She paused for breath as I led the way up the spiral stairs. 'I believe it was very decrepit when the old gentleman lived here.'

  In the bedroom she sighed. 'Such a lovely old four-poster. I know they are no longer fashionable. Piers insisted that we got rid of ours so unhealthy those curtains, he said. But this does look comfortable, especially in such a draughty old room,' she said, looking in alarm at the old tapestries Olivia had resurrected to add an illusion of comfort and warmth - warmth and life, as they were never completely still, activated by cracks that let in air through the ancient stone walls.

  At the door, she asked: 'Well, is there more to see?'

  'There's a private chapel, long disused but if you're interested...'

  Puffing her way breathlessly up the remainder of the now steep and narrow stairs, interested she was, but not in the way I expected or felt. As I opened the door, the afternoon sunlight was streaming through the old stained-glass window, a narrow-arched slit high in the wall. It cast bright splashes of colour on the stone floor where the altar had once stood.

  I felt again that air of tranquillity and benediction.

  'Quite churchlike,' remarked Freda at my side. 'Bu
t just a little creepy, don't you think?' And, looking round the rough-hewn walls: 'Perhaps a few pieces of elegant furniture would make all the difference. You could then use it as a second bedroom.'

  That was sacrilege, I thought, but said nothing.

  She had noticed hanging on the wall below the window the crucifix that Wolf Rider had given me and on the raised floor the candle I had lit for Danny. 'Why, Rose, this is a surprise. After all these years and I never knew you were Roman Catholic' She succeeded in making it sound like a particularly nasty and fatal disease.

  'I am not,' I said, 'but my late husband was born in Ireland. He was brought up and educated by the nuns at the Sisters of St Anthony's Convent down the Pleasance.'

  'You did not turn, then. That's a relief.' Pausing, she regarded me thoughtfully. 'But were you not afraid? I mean, mixed marriages can be most unfortunate, such a disaster socially too.'

  'Ours was not so. We were very happy and we never felt threatened by how we believed. In fact, we could always see some good in both churches.'

  Freda suppressed a sniff of disapproval and a tightening of her lips indicated her feelings on the matter as without another word she headed down the stairs and out into the sunny garden. There she breathed what could only be interpreted as an audible sigh of relief at a narrow escape from Popery.

  Tapping her foot on the path, frowning at a small group of weeds, she said: 'I really must get you some plants. Foley will bring them over. He has put down a few quick-growing trees and shrubs. They would be a great improvement, just what you need to shelter the back garden. They'll take away that bleak feeling-'

  'You are very kind,' I said, following her out to where her carriage was waiting and thinking I really enjoyed my wild garden, likely to outwit the keenest gardener's attempts to tame it.

  'Well, my dear, that was very nice. If you are absolutely sure you can't come to Duddingston, perhaps you'd come and have tea with me tomorrow at four. Meanwhile, I'll discuss plants with Foley.'

  'Thank you. May I come on my bicycle?'

  She frowned a little at that. 'If you wish. But I had thought to send the carriage round for you.'

  I felt very happy that evening, with a book to read and Cat curled up in her basket at my feet. With time and patience I was sure she would graduate to sitting on my knee. Leaning back in my comfortable armchair, it was a pretty domestic thought. A glimpse of a world remote as paradise from my nomadic life in a savage land with Danny and its tragic ending.

  Next day I cycled to Freda's to find that I was too early. Maggie, the maid, came to the front door looking cross and with a disapproving look at my means of transport, she said: 'The missus isna' back yet. She's awa' to the dressmaker's to have her new gowns fitted. Ye can come in an wait, if ye like,' she added disagreeably, as if that would put her to considerable personal inconvenience.

  I declined her suggestion and, as the day was pleasantly warm, the garden was a preferable option. I could see Foley's head and shoulders at the far end emerging from a deep trench he was digging, with shrubs and small trees ready for planting.

  I walked towards him. This was an excellent opportunity to discuss not gardens but something of vastly more interest: Molly Dunn. I was curious, for the newspaper's bland account revealed nothing of her character. No doubt Foley could fill in some details...

  He heard my footsteps on the path. Straightening, he put up his hand to shade his eyes as I came out of the sun. He stepped back, startled for a moment.

  'Good afternoon, Mr Foley.'

  Maybe he wasn't used to Mrs Elliott's friends passing the time of day with him. He touched his bonnet politely. 'Afternoon, ma'am.'

  'Mrs Elliott says you might have some spare trees and shrubs for my garden.'

  'That is so, ma'am. The mistress mentioned it and I'll gladly put some aside for you. We have more than enough. I'll come along and prepare the ground for them.'

  'Thank you. I'll be grateful.' Preparing to put my waiting time to good purpose, I took a seat on the low brick wall supporting the cold frame, an excellent vantage point to oversee Peel Lodge. I realised chances of seeing Matthew Bolton emerge once more were remote indeed. Doubtless endless patience was required by those who investigated and solved murders where the hand of coincidence played a very small part indeed.

  I just wished that the main suspect was not my friend's husband. However, my surveillance was not to be. Foley appeared from the greenhouse carrying a rather ornate garden chair.

  'You'll be more comfortable sitting on this, ma'am,' he said and clambered back into the trench.

  Thanking him, I remarked: ‘You seem to enjoy your work, Mr Foley. Have you worked long for the Elliotts?'

  Pushing back his bonnet, he scratched his forehead. 'Nigh on five year now.'

  'Then you must have known poor Molly.'

  'Aye, I did that. She came here straight from the workhouse when she was twelve,' He looked balefully in the direction of the house. 'She was right glad of a friendly face, I can tell you.'

  His expression was an insight; it told me more than any words about how the Elliotts treated their staff.

  Foley sighed. 'Such a bonny lass she was.' He looked at me. 'Right bonny complexion and lovely fair curly hair. Like yours, ma'am. Just a picture.'

  Faintly embarrassed at such flattery, I asked hastily: 'Was she happy here, do you think?'

  'Happy enough, happy as any of them,' he added darkly.

  'She must have had friends among the other servants?'

  'Nay. They were all too old for her.'

  There was a moment of silence, before I said: 'Can you tell me something that rather worries me?'

  'If I can, ma'am.'

  'I'm curious to know why they allowed her to stay on alone in the house that weekend.'

  He looked at me sadly. 'It's a holiday time for the staff when the master and mistress are away. But the lass had nowhere else to go. No family or friends like the others. No one' - he paused and pulled out a weed at the side of the trench - 'but me. I live down Priestfield way but I couldn't take her there. Wouldn't be proper. I live alone since my father died and I'm not a married man.'

  How lonely he sounded. Poor Foley. I wondered if anyone had ever loved him. And if when he was young he had loved someone and a shy man, too diffident to declare himself, his affection was not reciprocated. 'When did you last see her...' I forbore to add 'alive' but Foley understood.

  'A few days afore ... afore it happened.'

  'Tell me, did she have a sweetheart?'

  Foley bunched his fists. 'No, she did not. What chance had she in this place to meet young lads? They worked her like ... like a slave.'

  I smiled. 'That doesn't stop most girls, Mr Foley. There are always ways and means. Isn't that why the lower windows of the new villas have bars on them? Not to keep burglars out, I'm told, but to keep the maids in.

  He turned round, his face furious. 'She wasn't like that. She didn't like young men hanging around. She was very prim and proper about things like that.'

  No young men, I thought. So that took care of the jealous swain. As for Foley, he sounded exactly like a stern father.

  I wondered if he had heard about Wild Elk's death. It had been reported in the newspapers but perhaps Foley hadn't noticed, didn't - or couldn't - read. I certainly didn't intend bringing it to his attention. He would hear eventually. That couldn't be avoided. It would be the talk of the local inns, if he frequented such places in his spare time. I wished he could have been spared such news. He would be dreadfully upset, having set his heart on the 'savage Indian' as her killer, to have to come to terms with the man being innocent.

  I imagined the police wouldn't be too pleased either if he began tormenting them again, as Jack had told me, with his daily calls, his insistence that her murderer was still on the loose and why weren't they out looking for him?

  He was digging again. And so was I, for information. 'When you found her that day, it must have been a dreadful shock, so awful for
you?'

  He turned to look at me, his eyes full of tears. With the back of his hand he brushed them away.

  I felt terrible, reminding him so brutally of what had probably been the worst experience of his whole life.

  He nodded slowly as if seeing it all again, laid aside his spade. 'I tried lifting her up to revive her. At first I thought the poor lass had just fainted. But she was cold. So cold. Like ice. I tried to warm her hands - then I knew she was dead.'

  He had tried lifting her up. 'Was she quite small?'

  He stared at me. ‘If you mean little, like yourself, ma'am, no. She was more like the mistress in size. In fact, she told me the mistress often handed down clothes she was done with.'

  I thought about that. Foley was not more than average height, lean and wiry. I couldn't see him carrying someone the size of Freda Elliott, trying to get help. On the other hand, Matthew Bolton and his labourer friend were tall, strong-looking men.

  'Was there evidence of a struggle?'

  'A struggle. Of course there wasn't. He ... he just crept up on her - that devil. She didn't stand a chance.'

  'So there was no sign of any disturbance where it happened.'

  He stared at me. 'Not a thing out of place. Everything was neat as a pin. Tidy - the way she always kept the kitchen. Proud of it, she was.'

  I thought about that. A big strong lass like Molly should have put up a fight. 'Doesn't it strike you as rather strange?'

  'What d'ye mean, strange?'

  'Because if she didn't put up a struggle, don't you think it might be because this man she let into the kitchen, who then attacked her, was someone she knew?'

  'Someone she knew?' He frowned. 'Why should it be someone she knew?'

  'Don't you see, if it was a stranger, forcing his way into her kitchen, she would have picked up the nearest object to defend herself. A knife, a rolling pin. Kitchens are full of useful weapons in a tight spot and all near at hand.'