Quest for a Killer Read online

  ‘But that time in hospital gave me time to think. Knowing that I was an old man, I had to share this terrible burden. That’s why I gave her letter to you. If I died, someone would know the truth.’

  Like Will, I had never experienced anything other than love between man and woman, that all-consuming passion I had for Danny. But I believed I could understand the other kind. While we were in Arizona folk said that some of the legendary women of the west, like the notorious Calamity Jane, had female lovers and we knew two saloon girls in Phoenix who were the subject of wry glances. They used to walk about with their arms around each other, cuddling and kissing. They boasted that they sold their bodies to the men out of necessity for survival, but their true and only real love was for each other.

  I hurried back home, anxious about leaving Danny on his own. He was in the kitchen and didn’t seem to have a fever. He said his arm was fine now. At least he was fit enough to have boiled some water, washed and shaved, which added to the feeling-better illusion.

  ‘I’m fine now, been making myself at home.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll be ready to retreat upstairs when the lodger returns. How much time have we?’

  ‘About a couple of hours. We’ve a lot to catch up on, and just this afternoon, you’ll be glad to know I’ve cleared Sam Wild’s name in connection with another local crime.’

  And because he knew of the love affair of the two saloon girls I told him Will Sanders’ story of his granddaughter’s suicide.

  ‘Just as well he has that note, the evidence. I can well understand his wish to keep that information to himself. Do you remember those Phoenix girls saying what they did with men was business, but what they did with each other was pleasure? I guess most of Edinburgh folk of your acquaintance would find that hard to understand. Men and men, maybe – behind scandalous whispers and speculations. But never women and women.’

  And as we talked about other Arizona days, the nostalgia of our lives together returned and I thought sadly that everything between us was like that – past, lost for ever – and I could not help feeling that there was no way forward, no future for us.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  When we heard Jack’s footsteps on the path outside, Danny retreated upstairs, with Thane at his heels. I realised it was dangerous if he lay down outside the secret room, so I called him down, and when Jack gave me an enquiring look, I said, ‘He’s taken to sleeping on his rug upstairs.’

  ‘Maybe he’s heard someone say that two’s company,’ Jack replied and added sadly, ‘if only it were true.’

  Ignoring that, I told him of my meeting with Will Sanders.

  He was not as surprised as I had expected, indeed, he seemed to have revised his earlier suspicions.

  ‘I was always pretty sure that there wasn’t anyone else involved despite the sensational press statements. They’ll say anything to sell a few extra newspapers. I was always sure we weren’t looking for a killer and that it was a suicide pact. And that is how the verdict went, the case has now been closed and there’s no danger of opening it again or of anyone else knowing what really happened.’

  He sighed. ‘However, we still have Felix Miles Rice’s death on our books.’ To my question about anything new, he said, ‘Yes, things are on the move. I don’t suppose you heard while I was away that, according to the Miles Rice office in George Street, his lawyer was to call next day at Rice Villa. All they could get out of interviewing that tight-lipped gentleman was that it was for a purely personal matter, not one handled by his business interests.

  ‘We’ve also had a visit from Peter Lambsworth. He came to see us anxious to make a statement that he found Felix was dead when he returned to recover the diamond earring his sister had lost on their earlier visit…that he was deeply shocked, and as there were no nurses or doctors around, and Hoskins was also absent from his post, he guessed that Felix must have just died and that they were away making arrangements.

  ‘Lambsworth, however, was so upset that he didn’t delay and rushed out to be the first to break the terrible news to his sister. He added that Mrs McQuinn of Solomon’s Tower, who had been visiting at the time, could confirm this. But what was more important than explaining why he rushed out without informing any of the hospital staff was that he remembered having seen a man with a scarred face, a shifty-looking character was how he described him, hurrying down a corridor. He called out to him to stop, but the man just took to his heels and disappeared. Lambsworth thought this might be significant.’

  Pausing, Jack looked at me curiously. I was confused, thinking of Danny, who to all intents and purposes fitted the description. My expression must have betrayed some anxious moments, as he asked, ‘Did you see this character by any chance, Rose?’

  ‘No. I saw no one like that.’

  Jack shrugged. ‘I doubt whether you would have made a note of that in any case, remembering where you were. Just as I told Lambsworth not to forget that, leaving the hospital by the reception area where accidents are admitted, a man with a scarred face might not be an improbable sight. He said he was glad about that and explained, somewhat apologetically, that being aware the police were on the lookout for a wanted man of that description, when he had informed his sister, she insisted that he should mention it to the police.

  ‘He sounded rather cast down and disappointed that we were not taking seriously what he and his sister had thought of as an important piece of observation, apologised once again for having taken up our time and so forth.’

  Knowing that the twins fancied themselves as amateur detectives, I wasn’t surprised at Elma’s reactions or the results. But I got the distinct impression that Jack wasn’t very concerned about the mystery man with the scarred face who Peter was hinting might be Felix’s killer.

  I knew for sure that it could not have been Danny, who hadn’t ever met Peter, Elma or her late husband. However, the alarming thought came unbidden that, if Peter was right, then perhaps there was a scarred man who might prove to be a likely suspect, as Jack continued:

  ‘Whatever Lambsworth claimed to have seen, all the evidence points to his brother-in-law having undoubtedly been murdered, and we have absolute confidence in finding his killer, however long that takes; we will get it sorted out in the end.’ And looking round he said, ‘Now, where’s that dog of ours? He seems to have deserted me.’

  ‘Thane,’ he called upstairs. ‘Come, Thane.’

  And Thane, who was proving to be a good actor, came as called, wagging his tail delightedly as he took his usual place at Jack’s feet.

  Jack stroked his head. ‘What’s come over you, lying in that cold bedroom when there’s a nice fire down here with us?’

  Once more I cleared away the supper dishes, always taking care to meticulously remove any extra cups or signs of Danny’s presence; I knew that we were playing for time. This absurd situation of Jack and Danny living under the same roof was on a very thin wire.

  They were bound to encounter one another by accident, or ill timing, sooner or later, and I did not want to consider the consequences of that meeting, for Jack would be obliged in his official role, whatever his personal feelings for my distress, to arrest Danny McQuinn as Sam Wild.

  Although he was not guilty of murder, the unfortunate death of the bank clerk might well be classed as manslaughter. He would still be guilty on a charge of robbery. But, much worse, he was wanted for murder in the United States.

  Whatever happened, I could see myself in a dangerous situation as an accessory for having sheltered a known criminal. Even if I didn’t go to prison, that would certainly be the sad end of my career as a lady investigator.

  Each passing day was of gnawing anxiety, a feeling of doom I could not shake off. A routine was established: each morning as soon as Jack departed, Danny came downstairs and I made another breakfast.

  I was pleased to see that, although he still looked pale and ill, his arm was healing nicely and he was getting restless. He was not used to inactivity or solitary confinement, so I decided a
fter much careful thought and deliberation that he should walk on the hill with Thane.

  He would be quite safe: Arthur’s Seat was a wild and lonely place on weekdays, only a few stray sheep grazing, and Thane would give plenty of warning, with his ability to hear the approach of anyone, scenting a human or animal well before they were in sight or sound.

  My real fears were on behalf of Elma and Peter and their informal visits. Would Thane’s warning system fail when he considered the two as friends made warmly welcome in the Tower?

  I was expecting them imminently as I had heard nothing from Elma for a few days – obviously she was too involved in her husband’s funeral arrangements. She was expecting me to be present on that sad occasion but, for several reasons, I decided to give the funeral at St Giles’ Cathedral a miss. I had never met Felix and women were not expected to attend the graveside committal service. And afterwards I had no desire to return to Rice Villa or some expensive hotel marked down for elaborate refreshments and a turnout of Edinburgh society.

  There was a spread in the newspapers about Miles Rice’s sudden tragic death, his great loss to the community, and a lot about his beautiful heartbroken grieving widow and brother-in-law. It all sounded like a normal obituary of a well-respected Edinburgh citizen.

  I wasn’t surprised to learn from Jack that he and his senior colleagues had also been present at the cathedral and the cemetery. I imagined them trying hard to look inconspicuous on the faint off chance that they might have a chance encounter with Felix’s killer.

  Although I knew that they still had an unsolved murder on their books, a killer on the loose, it seemed a useless exercise to me. I could not imagine that creature turning up at the graveside, although I was informed, quite seriously, by Jack, that such things often happened.

  ‘Perhaps just making sure,’ he said, ‘or a warped sense of taking a last look and breathing freely at last, seeing their victim has really gone for ever and will not trouble them any longer.’

  The following day I encountered something very strange and sinister while making up Jack’s bed in the great hall, something he usually did for himself, but that morning he had overslept and left in a hurry. I seized the opportunity to do a little tidying.

  I turned my attentions to the table, its normally pristine surface scattered with discarded sheets of paper – Jack’s attempts to teach himself to use the typewriting machine. He had not progressed very far: there were lists of three- and four-letter words, simple everyday ones used to make it easier to recognise the letter positions of the typewriting keys, words like ‘you’ and ‘yours’, ‘two’ and ‘wore.’

  The machine symbols QWERTYUIOP seemed odd to my way of thinking. Why not have a proper ABC? I glanced at one page of words and noticed that on the ‘you’ and ‘yours’ the letter U was missing altogether or very faint.

  Very faint indeed, and tentatively I tried it out for myself on Jack’s last practice sheet of paper which was still in the machine. I had to hit the letter U really hard…and then…I remembered. This was probably the result of the damage the machine sustained when I was attempting to carry it and, losing my balance, bashed against the wall.

  I went suddenly cold. For that faint ‘U’ was the letter I had noticed was faint on the warning note I had received, informing me: ‘Your turn next’.

  There was only one possible conclusion. I backed away in horror as if the machine was guilty, for it had typewritten that note.

  Which meant that someone had been in the Tower, used it in my absence. Of course the kitchen door had, until lately, always been left unlocked for Thane. But who was to know that? Had the writer of the note been lurking about outside somewhere just awaiting such an opportunity? That I knew was nonsense.

  Was the writer, then, a joker perhaps?

  I did not think so. And the only persons with legitimate access to the Tower in my absence were Jack, and Elma and Peter, who had occasionally taken shelter driven inside by the rain or awaiting my arrival. But it was absurd to imagine either of them doing such a thing, although on second thoughts, I wasn’t past considering Peter might fancy himself as a joker: his sense of humour was a little warped on occasions, something that embarrassed poor Elma exceedingly.

  But on the rare occasions when we had been in the great hall together, neither had shown much interest or curiosity about the typewriting machine under its leather cover, and I remembered how shocked they had been at the warning note, Elma in particular frantic for my safety.

  I decided not to tell Danny. He had troubles enough of his own without having to listen to long explanations about the typewriting machine and the note, thereby giving him the extra burden of worries for my safety.

  After supper with Jack that evening, I produced the note and we compared it with the words he had been practising.

  ‘Sharp eyes!’ He whistled. ‘I should have spotted that!’

  He listened carefully as I recalled the events of the day that the letter had been brought by the postman while I was out.

  ‘Remember when I showed it to you, you insisted that I got curtains for the kitchen window?’

  He nodded. ‘A very interesting development. Who had access to the Tower that day apart from yourself?’

  When I said only Elma and Peter, who had called in and were waiting for me, he asked sharply, ‘Can either of them use a typewriting machine?’

  I thought that highly unlikely. But as I watched him pocket the note, saying that he would add it to the file, I doubted whether it could have anything to do with the present investigation into Felix’s death.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Jack was going to his parents’ golden wedding and, before he left, he tried once again to persuade me to go with him.

  Handing him his valise, once again I refused. ‘We’ve gone into all the reasons, Jack. I’m sorry. Have a happy time and give them my warmest wishes.’

  His departure was a blessed relief. It meant that Danny and I had a whole weekend together in safety, but each passing day saw me battling for a solution to the problem of what was to happen to Danny. We had to have a plan: obviously he couldn’t stay in this area of Edinburgh, but once he was stronger perhaps he could make his way to another town, find work, get a regular job, settle down.

  He smiled at that. ‘Sure now, and maybe you could join me there.’

  But he didn’t sound very convinced about that and, frankly, neither did I. And I think he interpreted by my silence that my life was very much Edinburgh related.

  ‘You could start up as a lady investigator in Glasgow or Aberdeen, or we could even go south down to England. Or back across to Ireland,’ he added hopefully. ‘You would love Kerry.’

  Again mute, I wondered what an ex-policeman, wanted for murder in the United States, had in mind as a regular job.

  ‘What will you do?’ I asked.

  He said vaguely he could turn his hand to most things. Building was one of them. And he was strong enough for labouring work.

  I doubted that. Although he had been so at one time my general impression was that Danny of today was a sick man who, for the moment, seemed content to remain almost, but not quite, a prisoner in Solomon’s Tower with its secret room.

  And then, when I least expected it, a visitor, the most welcome visitor in the whole world.

  I heard a carriage coming along the road, we listened. It stopped and Danny quickly retreated upstairs.

  I opened the door cautiously.

  ‘Vince!’

  Was this the miracle I had been praying for? I thought as, laughing, he swung me off my feet as usual.

  He followed me into the kitchen. ‘Oh, Vince, I am so glad that it’s you. You have no idea…’

  He made a face. ‘Only very briefly, I’m afraid. Matter of hours. This time you have the royal train to thank. Bit of trouble, some problems on the way back from London. Damned engine broke down just short of Waverley Station, fortunately. Got the engineers looking at it. They reckon it isn’t serious,
a couple of hours will do it. But I couldn’t miss the chance—’

  ‘Vince,’ I interrupted, ‘Danny is back.’

  ‘Danny!’ He stared at me as if I’d gone mad.

  ‘Yes, Vince. Danny is alive. He’s here – upstairs.’

  Vince looked utterly bewildered, he opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and repeated, ‘Danny – here?’

  So I told him as briefly as I could the events that had led to Danny’s return, including the circus.

  Vince shook his head as if he couldn’t take it in. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I’ll get him.’ I called and Danny appeared.

  He came slowly downstairs. I glanced at Vince. I could see from his expression that he was shocked by Danny’s changed appearance.

  I watched them together, these two who had not met for many years. Danny was overjoyed to see Vince again, teased him about that expanded waistline, the good living, slapped him on the shoulder.

  When at last I got a word in edgeways, I mentioned the complications regarding Jack also staying in the Tower.

  ‘As a lodger,’ I added hastily as my stepbrother gave me a hard look. Sitting around the table, he cleared his throat and said, ‘A very difficult situation indeed.’ However, his frowning glances in Danny’s direction indicated that Dr Vince was more concerned regarding this particular patient’s health.

  He asked a number of casual questions which Danny fielded with a smile. ‘Sure now, and you’re the doctor, I forgot. But don’t worry about me, I’m fine. Getting plenty of rest.’

  I could see Vince wasn’t satisfied with this and he said, ‘Well, as I’m here, I’d like a look at that arm. Not really my present category, but I know enough about knife stabbings in an academic way from my student days in medical college here. And I’ve picked up quite a bit on gunshot wounds from occasional accidents during the shooting season at Balmoral. Just a general check up, eh, Danny. Junior physician to Her Majesty’s household – what a chance. Something you can boast about to your mates. Would cost a fortune in Harley Street.’