The Inspector's Daughter (A Rose McQuinn Mystery) Page 19

  Foley's eyes widened slightly as if that thought had never occurred to him before, then he shook his head firmly. "Course she didn't know him - it was that Indian done it!'

  I couldn't tell him that the evidence proved it wasn't Wild Elk or that my conversation with Wolf Rider had indicated that the rest of Edinburgh beyond Queen's Park was out of bounds to his circus troop.

  This talk with Foley left me more confused than ever and did nothing to help my own deductions.

  And there it must rest. I could hardly go around interviewing the Elliotts' servants without causing undue comment and consternation.

  But what Foley had told me didn't fit. I thought of Molly opening the door to a faceless man she knew, a man who had been a visitor to the house. 'Knowing her place', being polite as he made advances. Until it was too late. And Matthew Bolton's face furtively leaving Peel Lodge intruded. Was he Molly Dunn's murderer? Was he protecting someone else? I thought of that uncouth character lodging in his coachhouse. Was Matthew being blackmailed into protecting him, shielding a brutal killer?

  The law wouldn't see it that way and poor Alice would be even more distressed when her beloved Matthew went to prison as accessory to murder.

  Perhaps I should let well alone, allow the murder of Molly Dunn to rest where it belonged: an unsolved case.

  For I realised that the solution I had in mind, once it was proved beyond reasonable doubt, must break poor Alice's heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  'Rose! My dear, I do apologise-'

  Foley retreated to his digging again as Freda hurried across the garden.

  'That dreadful woman - unspeakable. She actually kept me waiting thirty minutes for my fitting. Then she told me calm as you like that the evening gown wasn't ready. Such excuses, of course. She'd been ill and so had her baby. Four children under five years old, if you please - and an invalid husband with TB. Or so he claims-' As she spoke she led the way towards the house. 'How awful that Maggie left you out here with the gardener. I shall reprimand her severely-'

  'No need,' I interrupted. 'It was my choice and Foley was very helpful.'

  'Really. I always find him exceptionally dull. You must bring out the best in him,' she said and, with a curious look: 'But then you always did, even as a girl. Everyone loved you at school. Especially the teachers. We were all quite envious,' she added with a little trill of laughter, her rather mocking look indicating that I wasn't to take my popularity too seriously.

  That was the moment when I decided my childhood instincts about Freda had been right. I hated her snobbery, hated the thought that we were linked by birth into the same social class. We had nothing in common. After a wearisome hour of Freda airing names of all the famous and important people Piers knew and the hectic life of an MP's wife, I took my leave. Earlier than was strictly polite and on the feeblest of excuses, but I was beyond caring. Enough was enough!

  However, I felt considerably better, my patience restored, when at the front gate I saw Nancy, Mrs Brook's young friend, pushing a pram in the direction of Peel Lodge. 'Mrs McQuinn,' she greeted me. 'I'm so glad to see you. I got the situation, thanks to you. I'm now nanny to wee George here.'

  Pausing, she drew back the covers to let me see his sleeping face. Isn't he gorgeous? He's so good, too. I'm so grateful to you, Mrs McQuinn. I came for interview and Mrs Harding wanted me the very next day. She loves wee George. Her sister died when he was born, now her man has remarried and wants his bairn back. She's right worried.' She sighed. 'Such a nice lady, too. Giving me every Sunday off - not many nannies get more than a day a month. So I'm lucky.'

  She looked pretty and animated, wholesome as a breath of mountain air, after my recent visit to the house next door. I suspected her conversation would be vastly more interesting as well.

  When I suggested she visit me some afternoon she was delighted. Explaining how to get to the Tower, I added: 'It's rather far for you.'

  'Not at all. I'm used to walking and I'll bring wee George, if you don't mind.' I didn't and she smiled. 'I'd love to see your old tower. I like old buildings and churches. History was my best subject at school. I wanted to be a teacher, but it wasn't to be,' she added sadly.

  As she was leaving, I said: 'Call me when you're passing - any time, I'm mostly at home-'

  I left her, thinking that at least Matthew was cleared of fathering an illegitimate child.

  A nearby church clock struck five and on impulse, as I was only ten minutes away from the Boltons' house, I decided to call on Alice. It didn't cause me any anxiety that such informality was frowned upon and leaving calling cards was the polite rule expected in Edinburgh society.

  Even as I told myself that Alice and I were old friends, I knew the purpose of my visit was to see Matthew who arrived home each day, according to Alice, at five o'clock prompt. I needed urgently to see him in his domestic surroundings. 'Catch him off guard,' whispered my alter ego, the investigator. Pappa had told me long ago that there was much to be gained by observation and deduction when people - especially suspects - were least prepared for a visit.

  I was in luck. Alice was at home and pleased to see me. I had a story all prepared. There was a summer bazaar in one of the Newington churches (information obtained from a quick look at a poster on my way from Saville Grange). 'I wondered if we might go together.'

  'That would be delightful. Rose. Friday would be better as Matthew often stays late in his office on Fridays. He likes to prepare his court cases for the week ahead, you know. It's his busy time just now-'

  I listened amazed and thought that business must have improved greatly since my recent visit to the offices of Bolton and Bolton.

  'He came home early today. He's in the study,' she whispered, looking across the hall. 'He has a visitor, an old friend.'

  At that the study door opened. I heard voices, one of them was faintly familiar. I wondered for a moment if Matthew's uncouth friend from the coachhouse had been elevated into polite society.

  But the man who emerged could not, by the greatest stretch of imagination, have been the rough labourer I had briefly encountered in the coachhouse.

  Over six feet tall, very thin with an apostle's face and a beard, he was very well dressed. I had seen him before. 'Thomas Carless. You met at our wedding, Rose.'

  This was the man Vince had pointed out to me in the Café Royale, known to sail close to the wind in his business dealings. Was Alice ignorant of his reputation?

  Matthew was watching me narrowly. When our eyes met he was polite, he smiled a lot, but there was something reserved and evasive in his manner. As if he were greeting a client whom he didn't entirely trust, and who might turn out to be difficult and even dangerous.

  He was nervous, sweating slightly. Was I mistaken? Was it his recent interview with this old friend Carless and not myself that had disconcerted him? His countenance cleared a little when the maid announced that 'Mr Carless's carriage has arrived.'

  Shortly afterwards Matthew joined us in the drawing-room, his manner noticeably more relaxed, almost normal in the circumstances, in keeping with a husband politely receiving an old friend of his wife's, whom he hardly knew at all. I doubted whether that stolen kiss of long ago lay heavy on his conscience.

  'Alice tells me you have recently returned from America. If you are interested in Robert Louis Stevenson, I have a copy of his book, Across the Plains, which might appeal to you.'

  When I said I had bought a copy he said: 'It is quite excellent. I have several of his novels, Treasure Island, Kidnapped-

  'Matthew knew him personally,' Alice put in proudly. 'They studied law together.'

  'He wasn't a close friend, Alice,' said her husband sternly.

  'Of course not, dear. I realise that he was something of a tearaway, quite unconventional despite his upbringing. But then people who write often are strange,' she added, sounding disappointed that they could not claim the now famous author as a close friend.

  Glad of this chance to pursue a common
interest in books, Matthew said: 'Has Alice shown you our library yet?'

  She hadn't and rather proudly he led the way across the panelled hall into a large room with shelves on all four walls, from floor to ceiling. Most of them were packed with books and hardly needed the modest explanation: 'I have a fairly good collection.'

  'Fairly good!' exclaimed Alice good-humouredly. 'There are books everywhere. Old, dusty volumes no one ever opens.'

  'At least you don't have the dusting of them,' was the sharp retort and to me: 'My wife has no head for heights.'

  Alice shuddered. 'Even those library steps make me feel giddy.'

  I felt she would have liked to expand upon this unfortunate disability but Matthew, impatient at the interruption, turned his back on her and, with a smile for me, went on: 'I gather you are something of a reader, so do feel free to borrow anything that takes your interest.'

  'You are very kind.'

  The chiming clock reminded Alice that she was expecting two ladies from the Women's Guild to discuss the autumn programme. 'They are staying to supper, since Matthew has another engagement. Perhaps you would care to join us, Rose.'

  I declined the invitation. The prospect of two worthy ladies possibly of Freda's calibre, I thought uncharitably, would be too much in one day even for my strong constitution.

  While we were talking, Matthew went into his study and emerged with several letters which he put on the hall table.

  'If they are ready for the mail, there is a box at the end of the street,' I said.

  'Maggie will take them. It is quite a walk.'

  'But I have my bicycle.'

  'Very well. And thank you.' As he handed them to me I noticed that his hands were far from immaculate. His fingernails were dirty and I wondered if he had been indulging in a little light weeding and had not had time to wash his hands before his visitor arrived.

  Alice kissed my cheek and, after some argument about a meeting place, we agreed to meet inside the church hall.

  I had my own reasons for insisting. For my plan to succeed it was necessary to include my bicycle.

  I was curious enough to read the addresses on the three letters before dropping them into the postbox. None of them meant anything to me or seemed of any significance to the purpose I had in mind and retaining them might prove embarrassing.

  But by the time I had made my way back to the Tower, Matthew's grimy fingernails had triggered off the wild course of action I had been considering, lurking at the back of my mind ever since Wild Elk's death.

  When I pushed my bicycle along the path towards the now empty stable. Thane was waiting for me.

  Delighted to see him again, I hugged him and he was real enough to give my face a good wash. Thrusting firmly aside nonsense about a vengeful spirit who had pursued Wild Elk to his death, I stroked his head.

  He looked pleased, that ridiculous almost human grin. He was a dog, only a dog. Not a phantom, not magical nor malevolent. Somehow he had found his way to Arthur's Seat. That silky coat was too well groomed to belong to a stray. Some day an owner would turn up and reclaim him. That I must believe; I mustn't get too attached to him.

  The fact that no one else saw him, that he was never around when I had a visitor at the Tower, was because he didn't wish to be seen. Doubtless he had his own canine reasons for being wary of humans.

  Thane was a lost dog who had come into my life by chance when I needed him most. And that was coincidence, or providence, or what you will. Every other assumption based on what Chief Wolf Rider had told me was complete and absolute rubbish, I told myself, looking at Thane lying so peacefully by my kitchen fire.

  I just wished I could believe it.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Next morning, while I was having breakfast, Foley arrived with the carter, unloaded saplings and shrubs plus a large spade.

  Freda had been very kind. If her generous contribution took root, survived the battle with the harsh elements and exposure of Arthur's Seat, then the Tower would be protected by an impressive small wood.

  I took Foley out some bread and cheese, which he received gratefully, offering further suggestions about putting down a winter vegetable patch. This discourse was interrupted by the arrival of Jack, in uniform today, striding across the garden. Acknowledging Foley by name and a cheery greeting, he said: 'Shall we go indoors, Rose? I have some important information for you.’

  We left Foley staring after us, obviously impressed and naturally curious about what a policeman was doing at the Tower before nine in the morning.

  Emptying the teapot for Jack, as he sat at the kitchen table, I said: 'So you know Foley too. Small world, isn't it.'

  He grinned. 'We frequent the same public house in Duddingston. I have an occasional game of cards with him and his cronies.' Declining my offer of bread and cheese, he added: ‘I’m on my way to the Central Office and I thought you'd be interested to know that you were right. Howe is guilty. He murdered his wife. Wild Elk's fingerprints are nowhere in the vicinity or near where Daisy was strangled.'

  Pausing, he regarded me thoughtfully. 'Nor on the belt he allegedly strangled her with. However, there are plenty of Howe's own prints and others, which I assume to be yours.'

  'Would you like to check?'

  He laughed. 'You're not serious?'

  'I am indeed. My late husband was obsessed by the discovery that fingerprints could be used in solving crimes. I saw Galton's book in Thin's. I bought it for him once.'

  'Have you read it by any chance?' Jack asked eagerly. When I said no, he went on: 'It's a fascinating work. There was a great deal of scepticism but now it has taken on and is in regular use. It isn't all that new, really. The ancient Chinese used thumb impressions to seal documents and in our own century they were used in India to identify illiterate prisoners. However, it wasn't until 1880 that a Scots physician, Dr Henry Faulds, came up with the theory that each individual's fingerprints were unique and might offer a possible method of personal identification...'

  Realising that fingerprints had cleared Wild Elk of Daisy Howe's murder I said: 'Did they fingerprint the kitchen at Saville Grange after Molly Dunn's murder?'

  Jack nodded. 'They did indeed. There were prints all over - and all pretty useless since they were mainly of servants, none of whom had been present at the time. As well as Foley's, of course, since he had discovered the body. Mrs Elliott objected strongly to having her premises - and her servants - fingerprinted.' He shook his head. 'She made a great fuss about the mess involved, threatened to have her husband bring it up in the House.'

  Listening to him gave me an idea. 'Can I ask you a great favour?'

  Jack smiled. 'Anything.'

  'Don't say that until you know what it is - would you check some fingerprints for me?'

  He grinned. 'Some sort of game, is that it, Rose?'

  'Something of the sort.' A grim game, but exactly what I had in mind.

  I met Alice as arranged at the bazaar and bought a crocheted table centre and a pretty shawl for Mrs Brook. Alice was choosing romances from the bric-a-brac stall. 'I can recommend this author. Rose. Her love stories are so poignant and quite tearful,' she added with a sigh. 'Some for you?'

  I declined that pleasure but this discussion gave me another idea. 'I would very much like to take up Matthew's offer. I'm very keen to read some Walter Scott again.'

  'Of course! Come home with me and you can help yourself.'

  Obligingly I pushed my bicycle along and she didn't seem to mind that this received occasional stares. She was being very brave today about showing that I was her friend and she didn't care a fig for middle-class conventions.

  In the library I hoped I had remembered correctly that Scott's leather-bound works were on a high bookshelf. 'Up there, Alice. If I may borrow Old Mortality please.'

  She laughed. 'Really? Surely you don't want to read such a dull book.' And, patting her recent acquisition of romances, she said: 'Wouldn't you rather have one of these?'

  'Thank
you, Alice. I may take up your offer in due course. I take it you don't read Sir Walter.'

  'Never! I prefer something lighter to put me to sleep.' She sighed. 'The books you see here are all Matthew's - they are first editions. He's an avid reader. He's read some of them several times. Amazing!'

  As she spoke, she wheeled the library steps into position and regarded the top shelf with some hesitation.

  'I wonder ... I hate going up there.' She shuddered. 'Heights make me so lightheaded. Would you mind, Rose?'

  That suited my purpose excellently. Climbing the steps, I took down the volume very gingerly and popped it into my basket. Shopping baskets for ladies might be frowned upon in elegant shops like Jenners, but they were considered right and proper for ladies at church bazaars without their maids in attendance.

  I watched the clock anxiously as Alice chattered happily, unaware of my lack of concentration. I had to be away before there was any chance of meeting Matthew, wending his way homeward. At last I made my escape, with Alice saying that I must come to dinner with them both one evening soon. At the front door she whispered anxiously: 'Have you any news for me yet?'

  I smiled reassuringly. 'Only that I'm fairly certain Matthew isn't having an affair with Lily Harding.'

  She clasped her hands together. 'Oh, Rose, you've made me so happy.'

  I didn't like to add that her husband might be guilty of something much more terrible, so before she could ask any more questions I mounted my bicycle and rode off.

  Sure I was no longer visible from the front door, I quickly turned down the back lane and, praying that the garden door was unlocked as usual, a moment later I was once again outside the coachhouse.

  I tapped on the door, hoping that Matthew's sinister friend was not already in residence. If so my plan would be ruined. There was no reply and with a sigh of relief I lifted the latch. The interior was grim and gloomy as ever but I did not intend to linger. I looked around. Ah, an empty bottle. The very thing. A moment later, wrapped in my handkerchief, it was safely stored in the bicycle basket and I made my way home, exceedingly pleased with the day's work. All I had to do was wait patiently for Jack to arrive next day.