Murders Most Foul Page 3

  Faro loved the fresh air of the road before him, a steep hill with glimpses far across of the Pentland Hills and, on a fine day, the heights of Sutra Hill. Trees, farming and a few mansions. Venturesome merchants having made their fortunes had, for various reasons, felt that while a town house in the New Town would be fine enough, it would be rather splendid to have one’s own estate on the city outskirts where land was cheap, and to build a handsome turreted mansion on the lines of a medieval castle in imitation of the Queen and Prince Albert’s new Highland home at Balmoral, the ambition for every man with a few thousand pounds in hand.

  And so it was that Lumbleigh Green came into existence on the edge of the Dalkeith Road, far from the less impressive home of William Lumbleigh, owner of a small coal mine near Leuchars, in Fife – not a fashionable place to live, William’s grandson Archie decided, while Edinburgh fairly zoomed in prosperity for the newly rich.

  Approaching the gates, Faro was acutely aware that for his social life with Lizzie there was a limit to what he could afford in the way of entertainment, apart from the variety theatres and a few dance halls, which had such a low reputation that respectable young women avoided them. Besides, he couldn’t dance, so it seemed that their future in a fast-approaching season of inclement weather would be reduced to cups of tea in a High Street café.

  And, as always, there was the problem, persistent as an angry wasp at their meetings, of the presence of Vince Laurie.

  Earlier that week, however, Faro had discovered a welcome change in Lizzie’s life. She had run to the gate to meet him, smiling eagerly, full of excitement. Matters had been moving apace at Lumbleigh Green and Lizzie’s promotion to lady’s maid meant that she was now expected to live in.

  ‘Of course I want to live in, madam,’ she had said. ‘It’s an honour.’

  In her efforts to save every penny, Lizzie had long occupied one room in a grim tenement in the Pleasance, in fact quite uncomfortably close to what was now being called ‘the murder house’, scene of the recent domestic killing of Mrs Daly by her husband. However, Lizzie’s lodging had one advantage: it was a ten-minute walk from Lumbleigh Green.

  She was in a quandary. She did not know if she could afford to keep that one room, nor did she want to, if she was honest, apart from providing a home for Vince. The attic room in Lumbleigh Green was magnificent by comparison, even in its spartan state, overlooking gardens far below and with a distant glimpse of the Pentland Hills.

  The second Mrs Lumbleigh was young and quite lovely. Infatuated, Archie had married her for her looks in the same manner as he normally acquired beautiful possessions at auction houses.

  Clara was aware that her own origins would not bear too close a scrutiny. She liked Lizzie, who was so different from the friends she met in their social circle, women with whom she always felt she had little in common. She would look at Lizzie and wish she could be her best friend, longing to share with her the often scarring details of her early life. But she thought better of it, ashamed to confess such emotion even to herself, or to Archie, of whose disapproval she was a little afraid, and who made it his business to educate her, impress upon her their role in this new society. Had she even hinted about liking her lady’s maid he would tell her sternly that one didn’t express such feelings where a servant, a mere employee, was concerned.

  She had no such problems with the other servants, had no desire to unburden herself to the formidable Mrs Brown or the two maids, the giggling, rather bold Ida, or Betty, painfully shy and inarticulate, a condition she shared with the coachman.

  As for her lady’s maid, Clara felt more comfortable with her than anyone else in the house, even Archie himself. Laurie was a skilful hairdresser and seamstress; Clara needed to have her on hand. Lately, however, she had sensed some preoccupation and agonised with fears that Laurie might be after another situation. Unable to bear the suspense any longer, she sat her down and asked: ‘What’s wrong? Is something bothering you, Laurie?’

  Archie insisted on the use of surnames for servants. Clara thought this was silly, it made her uncomfortable, but Archie believed this was not only fashionable but proper in the upper echelons of Edinburgh’s New Town society. Questioned by his wife he wasn’t quite sure why, but believed it was to prevent servants getting on too familiar terms with their betters.

  Lizzie had sat up straight and said: ‘I am happy to serve you, madam. I cannot turn this down but what am I to do about my little son, Vince? He’s at school at St Leonard’s, just a step from where I’ve been living in the Pleasance for the past few years.’

  True, it wasn’t much, but it was her home, after all.

  And so, the whole story rolled out as she dressed her mistress’s hair preparatory to an evening concert at the Assembly Rooms.

  And Clara Lumbleigh, studying her reflection in the mirror, had the divine inspiration of a solution. At the far end of the extensive gardens were the remains of the small farm cottage that had once occupied the site of Lumbleigh Green. Dilapidated, almost a ruin, to Archie it presented possibilities. With a barn that would serve as a stable, he had decided to keep it as accommodation for the coachman Brown who had come to Archie with excellent references from long-term employers in Glasgow and Aberdeen. Brown was prepared to also do duty as gardener/handyman, which pleased his tight-fisted master exceedingly, especially as Brown’s wife was an accomplished and experienced domestic servant, ready and willing to take on the role of housekeeper and cook.

  Archie had rubbed his hands with glee at this splendid piece of economy. What a find! As for Clara, she remembered there was a tiny attic with a skylight window accessible by ladder where Vince could sleep, having his meals either with the Browns or in the servants’ kitchen.

  ‘What do you think of that, Laurie?’

  Lizzie was dazed, almost speechless with gratitude.

  ‘Oh, madam, would you?’

  ‘Of course. The master may wish to make a reduction in your wages, but I will do my best.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, this is wonderful, wonderful.’

  And this was what Lizzie had been waiting to tell Faro when they met that evening earlier in the week. It still did not solve the problem of future meetings in chilly winds and darkness with frozen hands and feet. Not much place for a lingering kiss either, because that and more, Faro suspected, was certainly what Lizzie now expected. Perhaps as Ida and Betty, the table and kitchen maids, didn’t live in, there might be possibilities of secret meetings over a cup of tea.

  Lizzie would love to show him her attic, she said, but there were dangers. Such visits could be subject to misinterpretation, and she shuddered – if the master found out, it might well cost her her situation as well as her reputation.

  Now, this evening, Faro had news of his own – for a special treat he intended taking Lizzie to the theatre.

  As Faro stood by the iron gates framing a drive and a large and very ornate front door, Lizzie, always so punctual, failed to appear. Wondering anxiously what was wrong, he was considering whether he should ignore the forbidden entrance and the even more forbidding presence of two large black dogs patrolling the grounds. Lizzie assured him they were friendly but past experience had taught Faro to view dogs as the beat policeman’s enemies.

  At last a patter of footsteps announced the approach of Lizzie from the direction of the discreetly unseen tradesman’s entrance.

  She ran to greet him. He sensed immediately that all was not well. An anxious frown replaced her usual delighted greeting.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Jeremy. I’ve had an awful day, fearfully busy. I wondered if I was going to get away at all, having to serve supper. Had to take over from Ida. She’s so unreliable.’ And she proceeded at some length to talk about the trial that Ida the table maid was these days, disappearing, supposedly sick and not for the first time, either. ‘Madam had been very indulgent—’

  Faro only half-listened as he had very little interest in the goings-on inside the ‘big house’ which were
of such compelling interest and daily excitement to Lizzie. She spared him no detail of how difficult Madam had been about that new hairstyle, and her gown with its torn hem, how lace was almost impossible to mend. As for Mrs Brown, the housekeeper and cook, she was always complaining about everything. And so on and on as Lizzie took his arm and they walked towards Clerk Street and the small café newly opened where they might have refreshments, cups of tea and cream cakes.

  Faro was eager to forget for a while the trials of a long exhausting day; he never discussed any of his cases with Lizzie, particularly where a murder was involved. This was one occasion when he would have preferred something stronger than tea but he could hardly invite Lizzie to accompany him to one of the public houses.

  When at last the waitress took their order and Lizzie had hopefully come to the end of her domestic saga, he said: ‘I’ve a nice surprise for us this evening. Tickets for the concert, good seats for the second performance.’

  ‘Oh, Jeremy, I can’t – not tonight,’ Lizzie wailed. ‘I told you. I only have an hour off tonight – I’ll have to go back soon. Haven’t you been listening, Jeremy?’ she demanded.

  Faro hadn’t been listening. ‘But it’s at the New Royal Alhambra,’ he protested, ‘the one that’s replaced Dibdin Hall we all liked so much.’

  Lizzie nodded absently, remembering the old theatre that had been so popular before it literally fell to pieces, as Faro went on: ‘Just been open a couple of months, Lizzie, and I’ve been waiting for an opportunity, something we would both enjoy …’

  She held up a hand, looked tearful and said: ‘Jeremy, I’m disappointed too. I’ve been looking forward to that as well. But some other time, not tonight. I have to wait on table, you see. And I can’t let Sir and Madam down.’

  ‘Why have you to wait on table?’ he said shortly. ‘I thought you were the lady’s maid.’

  ‘So I am, Jeremy – have you not been listening to a word I’ve been saying?’ she repeated shortly.

  He felt suddenly guilty as she continued: ‘I told you about Ida. Madam says the master’s had enough and she’s not to come back this time—’

  ‘Yes, but isn’t there another maid—’

  ‘Betty, the kitchen maid? Heavens! Never her,’ was the shocked reply. ‘She wouldn’t do at all. She couldn’t possibly – it would be …well, awful. She might make mistakes about cutlery and serving courses in the right order – you see, I do know all the procedure,’ she said proudly. ‘I did that sort of thing once before I became lady’s maid to Madam …’

  Poor Lizzie felt very let down when instead of repeating how delighted he was about her promotion, how proud he was of her, Faro, who was feeling exasperated, merely shrugged and asked: ‘Could they not manage, just for one evening?’

  ‘They could if it had just been themselves and Master Paul. But it’s a proper dinner party, six guests—’

  ‘What about the housekeeper? Could she not serve as well as do the cooking for once?’

  Lizzie’s laugh was a trifle bitter. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking, Jeremy. It would be a disaster. Mrs Brown would be all hot and flustered – sweating, her feet hurting. No, she wouldn’t even consider demeaning herself for that sort of thing. Serving at table – that’s far beneath her.’

  It was no fault of Lizzie’s, Faro understood that, but he felt angry, especially as he had bought tickets for the concert.

  ‘What were we going to see?’ she asked.

  ‘A concert of operatic music.’

  ‘Oh, how nice. I am disappointed.’ But Faro thought he also detected relief. Lizzie’s taste in entertainment was what could be termed ‘broad’, mostly of the burlesque variety. He was trying to educate her to something a little more subtle, music and plays, particularly Shakespeare, his own particular favourite.

  ‘Perhaps you can return the tickets, get an exchange,’ she said, ‘or take your nice friend Mr Macfie. He likes that sort of thing.’

  He did indeed, but Faro was out of luck.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Macfie was not at home and Faro, standing outside his closed door in Nicholson Square, remembered that this was the weekend he was going to Glasgow for a reunion with old colleagues.

  So he went alone. It was a beautiful evening; a glowing moon flooded the quiet streets with light that begged for romantic dalliance. Inside the theatre, surrounded by cheerful, excited faces and happy chatter, waiting for the curtain to rise, he took his seat in the circle, painfully conscious of the empty one that should have been occupied by Lizzie.

  His thoughts turned to the moment he had left her, feeling guilty that he had somehow not concealed properly his anger and disappointment that she could not come to the concert. Did he detect feelings of relief in her refusal? He should have known that opera was not her kind of entertainment, he thought, as the curtain rose on the two singers with their heart-rending last scene of Tristram and Isolde.

  Alone in the interval with his gloomy thoughts while those around him adjourned for refreshments, he told himself Lizzie had no option of refusing to help out her mistress at a time of emergency, especially for the privileges she had been given. She had every reason to be grateful for promotion to lady’s maid, especially when a comfortable secure home for Vince had been thoughtfully included by Mrs Lumbleigh.

  As the curtain rose again and he joined in the applause for a solo pianist and a Beethoven sonata, he thought bitterly about the maid Ida, who had no such feelings of loyalty and could take leave on the flimsiest of excuses. He frowned, remembering Lizzie as she talked about Ida. Perhaps it was his imagination but he had a feeling she wasn’t telling him everything.

  Lying awake that night with the moonlight streaming through the window, the music from the opera excerpts throbbed through his head, refusing to be banished as memory presented the scene of reality he had witnessed – a murdered woman, and the tragedies in her life that had ended in such violence still unknown.

  Would they ever learn her identity or find her killer? And what would become of that small pathetic child? Had she witnessed the violent death of the woman who was her mother? Would she remember, and what sort of a future lay in store for her?

  If the police failed to discover the woman’s identity, or that of her killer, she would be taken to Surgeons’ Hall and become the object of study for the students eagerly awaiting fresh corpses to dismember, lessons in surgery to be learnt for the benefit of medical science and future mankind.

  The murder scene at Fleshers Close continued to haunt him and he decided that he would carry on a further investigation, talk to the woman who had rescued the child.

  He wondered if Gosse was also lying sleepless and doubted it. The sergeant, if he was awake at all, would be considering wider issues of criminal-catching or, if that failed, tying the murder neatly to a likely suspect. There was worse in store, as Faro discovered when he was awakened not by the peaceful church bells on a Sunday morning but by Mrs Biggs, saying crossly that there was a policeman to see him. He dressed hurriedly and found Gosse waiting downstairs for him.

  ‘There’s been another murder – at least, attempted this time.’

  ‘Another woman, sir?’

  ‘No.’ A shake of the head indicated disappointment. ‘An elderly man this time. Attacked in St Leonard’s and left for dead; attempted strangulation, though, just like the women.’

  ‘What was it this time? Robbery?’

  Gosse shook his head again, and said gravely, ‘I think we are dealing with something more serious than we first thought. Not a man killing whores but a madman – attacking anyone who comes his way.’ Gosse paused, yawned deeply. ‘And it was a full moon last night,’ he ended ominously.

  Faro remembered that the insane asylum had to put on extra guards each month when the moon was full; even the quieter docile inmates showed signs of aggression and some even turned wild and uncontrollable.

  ‘Victim is in the Infirmary and if he’s conscious there are some questions. Hopefully
he will have answers leading not only to this incident but to the women’s murders as well.’

  At the Infirmary an elderly man, white-haired and dishevelled, sat up in bed, his head bandaged, a dazed and frightened look in his eyes at the sight of two uniformed policemen standing at his bedside.

  ‘What am I doing here?’ he quavered. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. Why have they brought me to this place? I want my own home.’

  Gosse said: ‘You are lucky to be alive. You were attacked last night at St Leonard’s.’

  ‘Was I? What was I doing there?’ The man seemed utterly bewildered, his senses lost. Gosse looked at Faro, tapped his head significantly, his helpless shrug indicating they weren’t going to get very far with this one.

  The man shut his eyes, his fingers pulling at the bedclothes, then swallowing he touched his neck, winced. ‘Throat’s sore. Can you tell me why I’m here?’ he wailed. ‘What happened?’ And before Gosse could explain, he sat up and shouted: ‘Oh, now I remember; I was walking home when a man came from behind, put his arm round my neck’ – he tried to demonstrate – ‘tried to strangle me – like this. We staggered a bit, but I used to be a prizefighter and I’ve still got a bit of strength – aye, and I remembered the dirty fights, the tender bits to aim for.’ A hoarse chuckle. ‘I kicked out, he yelled and let me go, I fell and I must have hit my head, ’cos I woke up here.’

  Gosse asked: ‘Can you describe him?’

  The old man frowned. ‘Tall as me, I think. But I can’t be sure, he was behind me.’ He shook his head. ‘When you find him, hope you’ll let me have a go at him first.’ And suddenly alert, his senses restored by indignation, clenching huge knuckles, he stuck out his chin, nodded vigorously. ‘Aye, I’ll soon show him what’s what.’