Dangerous Pursuits (A Rose McQuinn Mystery) Page 19

  It began with Jack saying, 'You were very quiet back there, Rose.'

  As I started to explain, I knew he wasn't interested and he cut in with, 'You know I'm away to home this weekend. It's Ma's sixtieth birthday. She's expecting you.'

  'I didn't know I had been invited.'

  And of course I knew that once again I would refuse although I remembered Jack looking hard at Nancy when she had said, 'Your parents are lucky to live in such a lovely place. I've only been to North Berwick once - long ago on a school outing - and I loved it. I've never been back, but I've always intended to go there again,' she ended with a wistful sigh.

  Perhaps it was intended to wring Jack's heart and even wring an invitation out of him.

  'You don't have to be formally invited. Ma wants you at her birthday party.'

  'I can't come with you. I'm sorry.'

  Jack was angry. 'Why on earth not?' he demanded. 'This is a very special occasion and the folks are dying to meet you.'

  I knew what was in his mind and he might as well have added, At sixty she is getting desperate for grandchildren and the best present I can give her is for us to announce our engagement.

  It all ended by Jack going home in a huff leaving me with a lot of entries for my logbook on the day's events before going to bed. I didn't sleep well with so many images from the evening refusing to be banished.

  When Nancy arrived next morning with the children, who were sent out to play in the garden, she said, 'I was taking a chance on finding you at home. I thought you were going away with Jack.'

  'Not this time,' I said.

  Nancy wasn't prepared to let it go at that. 'But why not. North Berwick is a lovely place. I'm sure Jack's parents are very nice people.'

  I realized I wouldn't get away without an explanation, so I said, 'If Jack took me there, it might be misunderstood by his parents.'

  'Misunderstood?' she said.

  'Yes, Nancy. They will presume that Jack and I are engaged,' I explained patiently.

  'And you aren't - secretly, I mean?' She wasn't the least dismayed by this information. 'Well, now...' She sounded surprised and, a less charitable person might have said, rather pleased.

  Further explanation seemed necessary.

  'Nancy,' I said, 'I can't get engaged or married to Jack until I am absolutely certain that I don't already have a husband.'

  She frowned. 'But you're a widow. Rose.'

  'On paper, yes. But I have no definite proof that a missing husband is dead. And until that reaches me - if ever - I cannot marry anyone.'

  I thought I acquitted myself quite well although all I feared was that this had given Nancy renewed hope where Jack was concerned.

  After she and the children left, I got on my bicycle and rode out to Leith to see Rory.

  There was no one in reception and I made my way to the ward upstairs. The bed was empty. What had happened? Had Rory died in the night?

  Before I could give full rein to panic, a nurse came in carrying a pile of sheets.

  She greeted me cheerfully and to my question, she replied, 'He is making an improvement. And as there wasn't much more we could do for him and as he hated lying in bed, we decided he should be moved somewhere more comfortable.'

  At my further enquiry, I was directed once more to the reception desk. The nurse had returned.

  'Mr Rory has been moved into one of our houses.'

  'One run by the church charity organization?'

  'Yes, but residents pay a nominal rent for their room and food.'

  I looked at her, ready to ask how a penniless vagrant was going to pay for accommodation, when one of the senior nurses I had met on an earlier visit came across the hall.

  She recognized me and smiled. 'You've come about Mr Rory.'

  I said I'd just been told he'd been moved into a rented room.

  'That is so. We felt he will be happier-'

  'But he has no money.'

  She smiled enigmatically. 'Don't worry, my dear. That is all being taken care of.'

  'By whom?'

  She shook her head. 'I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to give you that information.'

  'But I must know-'

  She held up her hand. 'I can only tell you that Mr Rory has a benefactor who is providing the room for him, new clothes and anything that he needs.'

  When Jack looked in that evening I was glad to see him. We said we were sorry for being cross with each other and made up our quarrel. As we had supper together I told him about my visit to the hospital and the news about Rory.

  'You know what this means,' I said excitedly.

  'He'll be a lot happier-'

  'Not that, Jack. This mysterious benefactor - you must be able to guess who he is?'

  He shook his head. 'I have no idea. It certainly isn't me.'

  'Of course not. It's his estranged son. The lad he came to Edinburgh to find.'

  'The one who disgraced him, he told you.' Jack frowned. 'If that was so, then I think paying for him in a home is very improbable.'

  'Then who else could it be?' I kept seeing, over and over, the image of the young man whom I had mistaken for a doctor on the day after Rory's attempted murder.

  'Whoever it is,' said Jack, 'I'm glad someone is taking care of him. It's a great relief. I'll try and find out more about it when the inspector and I get back.'

  He grinned. 'Another urgent mission - the smugglers are extra busy these days.'

  I knew better than to ask for what was confidential information and we parted on excellent terms. Waving goodbye, I decided that whatever Jack's thoughts about Rory's benefactor, I was certain I knew his identity and that it was his estranged son.

  I just wished I could meet him.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  My lessons with Tessa continued. Her brother had been persuaded to walk with Nancy while the little girl and I sat alone in the huge library until late afternoon each day when the lamps were lit. Tessa was making good progress, enjoying herself hugely, but I was beginning to feel trapped.

  I had lost my first fine feelings about Carthew House. This was not what I wanted, to teach painting. If Gerald Carthew did not return until spring, then I was under a moral obligation to continue this pleasant, undemanding activity, while at the back of my mind, I remained involved in a mystery I had little hope of solving.

  Unless by a miracle there was some contact from Bertha Simms or her sister regarding Ivy or Ida, who just might be a lead to the dead woman at St Anthony's Chapel...

  As for the General and Lady Carthew, after that promising start they ignored my existence. As the weather threatened to close in and Arthur's Seat settled down for a long winter of fog and mist, with rain beating in from the east, they no longer strolled in the afternoons in the cold mist-shrouded gardens and remained upstairs in what had been indicated as her ladyship's private sitting-room.

  I had no reason to be dissatisfied with my situation. My fees arrived regularly each week, waiting in an envelope on the library table. But I must confess to disappointment, having had such high hopes of getting better acquainted with Lady Carthew, that I now found myself in the same position as Nancy, Mrs Laing, the laundry maid and the outdoor staff - one of their paid servants. I presumed Mr Kennock, the factor who lived at the lodge, belonged to a higher echelon.

  Then one day, as well as my fees, there was a card: would I come to dinner with them on Saturday evening? It was signed 'Harriet Carthew'.

  The weather had turned suddenly bitterly cold, the roads were icy, and we were precipitated into wintry sleet with flurries of snow.

  It was no longer feasible to use the short cut across the hill without having my skirts sodden wet and my boots soaked, so I took the longer road that led through Duddingston to the front gates, seizing the opportunity to buy some much-needed provisions.

  I bicycled off along the road through the village past the old kirk, on my left a narrow lane marked 'Strictly Private Property'. Its significance had gone unnoticed until now, since all
my activities were confined eastwards to Newington and Edinburgh and I rarely set foot in Duddingston.

  Dismounting briefly, I decided this lane must lead to the Carthews' stable yard. It was evidently in constant use, the ground churned up by horses' hoofs and wheel marks.

  My immediate goal however was a group of shops. Having made my purchases, I followed the road leading past the fourteenth-century Sheep's Heid Inn, where high stone walls terminated in ornamental gates: the drive to Carthew House, which wound its way through rhododendron hedges to emerge eventually at the distant prospect of the front entrance.

  On my right, a narrow path from the drive led to the barely visible Carthew family vault. Overcome with curiosity, I decided to have a closer look. The mausoleum was an imposing circular building influenced by many varying styles of architecture including classical Greek pillars and a cupola.

  There were tiny slits of windows and by wedging my bicycle against the wall between narrow ornamental stones, I managed to stand up rather precariously and peer inside.

  Alas for my trouble, it was too dark to see more than the shapes of what were presumably coffins and grave covers. Remembering the melancholy information that the vault would be permanently sealed after the General and his lady were laid to rest therein, a grim but interesting thought came almost unbidden.

  The perfect place to conceal a dead body...

  As I stared through the window, my mind backtracked to the mysterious disappearance of Charlie and the hackney cab. Of equal importance, I saw the answer to how my pursuer from Leith had vanished ahead of me. Not into thin air but by using the 'strictly private' lane at the entrance to Duddingston village.

  Certain I had hit on the solution to the dead woman's disappearance, I still had to prove it. There was little consolation in knowing how it had been done, but not why or by whom, for I was as much in the dark as ever regarding motive or identities for killer and victim.

  It was very aggravating indeed. Had I stumbled on convincing proof at last? I knew that when I discussed this with Jack he would mutter, 'Imagination!'

  But who was likely to be brave enough to invade the General's territory armed with a search warrant and such a monstrous supposition?

  Oddly enough it was the gossipy Mrs Laing who threw some light on the case, and the identity of the possible victim, whom I had never even thought of.

  Nancy was waiting to take Tessa and Torquil for a promised visit to see the new kittens at the stables. As we spoke, Mrs Laing rushed into the hall. Would I mind posting some letters for her on my way back through Duddingston?

  'I wouldn't ask you, but seeing you have your bicycle, it'll spare me that long walk on such a cold day. I'm not wanting to get my feet wet. I have a bit of a cold.' An illustrative sneeze made her face even more scarlet than ever, her nose beacon red.

  I said it was no trouble and, getting a last hug from Tessa, I followed her into the kitchen.

  As she handed the letters to me with more remarks about the trial of walking down that long drive, I remarked quite casually that I had never had a chance to look at the mausoleum before.

  'What is it like inside? Is it used as a private chapel?'

  'Not at all, Mrs McQuinn. Purely a burial place,' she said in rather shocked tones. 'And the door is kept locked at all times. That's my responsibility,' she added proudly, nodding towards a pantry door. 'The keys are kept in there, along with those to the other locked outbuildings.'

  She was interrupted by one of the bells on the wall opposite clanging vigorously.

  'Gracious me, that's Lady Carthew. She's waiting for her tea. Prompt on the dot of four. And me here gossiping.'

  She swooped down on the covered tea-tray and with no excuse to remain I followed her out of the kitchen and into the hall.

  As she puffed her way upstairs, I went back, opened the door she had indicated and there on the rack with labels tagged to them were various keys.

  But none readily identifiable as that for the mausoleum.

  Here was a quandary indeed. I could hardly take a bunch of unlabelled keys on the off-chance of finding the right one. And that achieved, how could I find a way of returning it without encountering Mrs Laing and offering a believable explanation?

  And there was an even greater chance of being observed, perhaps by the General himself, as I bicycled down the little path.

  And how could such an action be explained or justified to the General?

  I had a better, more daring plan. During our days in Arizona Danny and I lodged briefly in Phoenix with a bank robber's widow. He had died on the job, she'd tell us proudly. Such a tragedy. We had our suspicions that Delia must have assisted him on some of his nefarious activities since she knew all about safe-breaking and, what was now important to me, picking locks.

  'It's dead simple,' she'd say. 'Any woman can do it. All you need is a nail file, or if you don't have that, a hairpin - and all women have hairpins. That's just as good.'

  I never expected such knowledge to be of any use but now I had both the instruments required.

  Glad that I hadn't been persuaded to accompany Nancy and the children, I set off down the drive and, looking round to make sure no one observed me, went down the path to the mausoleum.

  With a heart beating somewhat faster than usual I put Delia's method to the test. After some frustrating moments in which two of my hairpins would never see better days, success! The lock turned and I opened the door.

  The smell that rushed out at me was terrible. Decay, strong and horrible. And it wasn't from the sealed coffins neatly stacked on the shelves.

  A dreadful stench that hurled me straight back to Arizona and a besieged fort where the dead - Indians and whites - lay unburied in the hot sun.

  I suspected a large trunk, the kind used by long distance travellers and fitted to the back of hackney cabs.

  With mouth and nose somewhat inadequately protected I lifted the lid. A blanket was wound cocoon-like round what was certainly a body, since the thin white fingers of one hand protruded. A woman's hand.

  Triumph at the success of my ingenuity was mingled with an overwhelming need for fresh air.

  I closed the door behind me and was very sick indeed.

  Recovering, I realized my mystery was solved but that I had not the least idea how to proceed. But I was quite certain about one thing.

  To reveal what I knew was to put myself in deadly peril from the unknown murderer.

  Chapter Thirty

  The urgent sense of imminent danger persisted and, certain that every rhododendron bush might hide a lurking assassin, I rode swiftly down to the village.

  Emerging at the ornate gates unscathed, I was reminded by the sight of a pillar box of Mrs Laing's letters. Taking them from my pocket I flicked through them.

  One caught my eye. 'Miss Yvonne Binns, Carthew House.'

  The significance of the name leapt out as I said it aloud. Across the envelope Mrs Laing had scribbled, 'Gone away. Address Unknown.' The postmark was a week earlier, the town indecipherable. But I regarded this new evidence with a feeling of triumph.

  'Got it!' I said and, instead of returning to the Tower, I rode across Edinburgh to the Asylum for Diseases of the Mind where the dour lady sniffed at my request that she consult her ledger again.

  It was as I had suspected. There was an Yvonne Binns.

  And this was the woman Bertha Simms had identified in the mortuary as her sister's long-ago friend.

  'Ivy or Ida, you told me,' said the dour one reproachfully. 'Could have saved yourself a journey had you given me the correct name in the first instance.'

  With so much of my evidence at hand to complete the puzzle I guessed that the killer must have forced the lock of the Carthew vault and put the murdered servant inside.

  The search had narrowed down considerably, to someone with knowledge of Carthew House.

  At this stage, evidence pointed to the late Peter McHully, former Carthew coachman, alleged lover of the disgraced maid who
had followed him to Leith.

  The obvious answer, simple and not at all unusual, was that she had been blackmailing him with threats to tell his wife. In a panic he had killed her and, with his knowledge of Carthew House, had deposited her in the mausoleum. A temporary measure until he found a more permanent place -however, he had himself been killed before this could be accomplished.

  It seemed crucial to pass my information on to someone - but who? How I wished Jack was around. I dismissed rushing to the City Police, trying to get someone to take seriously that I had discovered the body of a murdered woman, without some very exhaustive and, I was sure from their point of view, some very pertinent questions regarding my sanity.

  Meanwhile the General's dinner party was imminent and I could hardly burst in with the information.

  Did he know that there was a dead body in his family vault? His wife's personal maid who hadn't gone to England to take care of her sick mother but had got herself murdered just a mile away.

  That would prove embarrassing when the General asked me how I had made such a gruesome discovery.

  'By breaking into the mausoleum with the use of two hairpins and a nail file to pick the lock’ would certainly put an end to my amiable acquaintance with the General and his wife. To say nothing of my being henceforth considered a very unfit person to continue giving their little niece painting lessons.

  I saw us all trooping out across the gardens. Mrs Laing with mounting hysteria and the delicate Lady Carthew in imminent danger of a heart attack at such a dire revelation. Murders in the Carthew society happened only to other lesser people. The idea was monstrous that such a fate should befall her personal maid.

  I decided Dr Pierce would be the obvious person to confide in, if I could manage to get him aside. Otherwise I'd await Jack's return and, with a great sense of relief, hand over the matter to the police, used as they were to dealing with embarrassing situations.

  I spent a considerable time writing up my logbook, with all I had discovered so far, my observations, deductions and conclusions.