The Coffin Lane Murders Read online

  'She might well have gone to visit him. Very likely indeed,' she added triumphantly. 'Dr Benjamin lends her books on Scottish history and the classics.'

  When Faro looked surprised at her choice of literature, Miss Smiles went on, 'She even borrows and obtains books some of the staff would like to read. Dr Benjamin used to visit us and bring his books once upon a time, that is how they met again. But in the last year or two he has been crippled by rheumatism and has difficulty making the long journey. They have become friends and he specially asked if he could see her now and again. He wasn't worried by her past, said she had a fine mind and, indeed, he shared Dr Pursley's opinion that her incarceration in an - institution for half a lifetime was a miscarriage of justice.'

  Conan laughed. 'Doesn't that prove I was right, matron? You have a scholar's backing as well as a medical man's.'

  In the hall a clock melodiously chimed four and a bell shrilled through the hall. There was movement of scampering feet above their heads.

  Miss Smiles rose from her desk. 'Gentlemen, I must leave you.' And with a helpless gesture towards Faro, she repeated, 'Is all this a matter of vital importance? You still haven't told me what has happened,' she reminded him.

  'It's a police matter, madam. You'll hear the details in due course. Meanwhile, if you would be so good as to give Dr Pursley this bookseller's address.'

  Leaving Conan to evade the matron's question as tactfully as he could with a vague nod and a request to let him know immediately if the missing woman returned, Faro strolled to the front door to wait outside for Conan who joined him shortly afterwards.

  Watching Faro's expression, Conan said unhappily, 'I can make a shrewd guess at your thoughts, sir.'

  'Can you indeed?'

  'You are thinking we may have let a killer out on society. And I'm not blaming you. I had been warned, but I thought I knew best,' he added bitterly. 'The problems with this sort of violent condition is that patients can appear - and actually be - quite normal for years. Then something, perhaps a word remembered, a phrase or a scene from the past, triggers off a chain of thoughts and memories and hurls them back into the abyss again. I should have taken into account that Celia is at an unfortunate age for women-' He shook his head. 'Trouble is, I should have guessed from that patent slipper if we had heard that she was missing. No one but Celia would go out in such weather so inadequately clad. But she was vain about her small pretty feet and abhored boots, even in winter.'

  He sighed. 'I blame myself, sir. I thought I was doing the right thing, encouraging Summerhill to treat her as a normal person. Now I find we have a very serious situation on our hands. With this kind of brain disorder, about which we still know very little indeed, it appears that the lust to kill anyone without cause or reason can recur. And once they taste blood, as one might say, it gets worse, they need more and more.'

  Faro stopped walking. 'You are telling me that we have a killer, an indiscriminate killer who will put a knife in anyone who she regards as standing in her way?'

  Conan nodded miserably. 'Yes. Literally - and that would seem to be the answer. What other is there? Remember, of the three attacks only one has been a fatal stabbing.'

  'But the first was still murder. Molly Blaith bled to death.'

  'True. Fortunately the third one - Rita - is still alive.'

  'Then we must find your missing patient at once. As long as she is at large she may well be tempted to add further victims to her list.'

  Chapter 10

  Conan's revelations concerning the background of the missing woman left Faro a very unhappy man.

  Time wasn't on his side, but then it never was, never had been. He knew it was vital that he track her down and put her behind bars before she attacked again.

  Conan accompanied him to the Central Office and helped him to build up a complete description of Lady Celia for circulation in the district.

  Going in search of the superintendent, Faro was vastly relieved to learn that he had not yet returned from a colleague's funeral in London.

  His absence meant that Faro was in sole charge of the case. Accordingly he issued instructions that the woman's description be posted throughout the city with every constable in the district of Newington alerted. After wearying hours of combing the area around Arthur's Seat for evidence, at least they now knew who they were searching for.

  In his long career Faro had investigated every aspect of murder and, in more than one case, a woman had wielded the murder weapon or, more often, slipped the arsenic into the unsuspecting cup. But never had he encountered a murder where the killer's identity was already known.

  The hand holding the upraised knife to strike at random passers-by in this quiet suburb was that of a madwoman. A madwoman escaped from the institution where she had been incarcerated since she was sixteen years old.

  Even Conan, who dealt with such tortuous matters as the intricacies of diseased human minds, had been lulled into believing her one deed of violence was an isolated occurrence and that her present state of mind was the result of injustice and long restraint. What he had failed to recognise was his patient's potential for breakdown and the gravity of what might then occur.

  In considerable distress, he admitted to Faro that he had never given a second thought to the possibility that she might wish to escape from Summerhill, might even have plotted to take advantage of their trust in her to wreak revenge on the society which had assisted in depriving her of a lifetime's liberty. It was a terrible, vicious vengeance she sought on her own sex.

  Faro felt sympathy for Conan, friend of those unfortunates behind locked doors, trying against all the odds to keep them from the horrors of insane asylums, trying to prove that violence was a sickness, a disease like any other. And for every disease Conan insisted science must provide a cure sooner or later.

  If only it had been found in Lady Celia's case. According to Kate, he spent countless hours in the laboratory he had created for himself in Solomon's Tower, working endlessly with his cages of rats and mice, experimenting with drugs and devising new theories.

  But even if he succeeded with animals, thought Faro, the human brain was a vastly more complex organ than that of a rodent.

  At that moment, his own version of that elusive cure was more elementary. Find the madwoman and lock her up before more innocent citizens fell victim to the workings of her disordered brain.

  He thought of women and girls in Newington going about their daily routines, absorbed by everyday problems of taking care of families, husbands, young children, parents, when suddenly from the dark shadows of Coffin Lane, a screaming virago with a knife launches herself upon them, stabbing, slashing-

  His fears inevitably touched on his own home, and Mrs Brook, Olivia and Jamie's Nanny Kay. And in particular, Olivia's friend Kate who constantly travelled on foot between Sheridan Place and Solomon's Tower, her road taking her close by Coffin Lane.

  And then there was his daughter Rose, soon to be arriving from Glasgow for Christmas. Should he suggest she cancel her visit? Knowing his brave Rose, he guessed she would treat such a suggestion with scorn.

  He felt nervous, apprehensive, as never before in his career. He dare not rest or dream of relaxation until the mystery of the disappearance of the 'Lady Killer' (as the newspapers were to describe her) was solved.

  But where to start?

  He decided to return to the beginning.

  On his way to the antiquarian bookshop, whose proprietor might or might not have news of Celia's whereabouts, he decided to revisit the scene of the crimes; Molly Blaith, who had bled to death under the snow, and Mrs Simms, who had been brutally murdered on her way to take the train to Musselburgh.

  At least the third victim, Rita, still lived and perhaps she would have more valuable information by the time he returned to the hospital.

  Coffin Lane was deserted. Snow lay upon snow, only a few depressed vestiges of hedgerow emerged from the drifts. A bitter wind blew from the direction of Arthur's Seat, a hollow
chill eating into his bones.

  He knew how carefully the area had been searched and that the vicinity where the bodies lay was unlikely to yield anything of significance until the thaw revealed perhaps too late a kitchen knife or a missing slipper.

  He hurried back towards Minto Street past the scarlet mailbox emblazoned with the Queen's initials, 'VR', where Molly had failed to post her mistress's urgent letter to her solicitor.

  He shook his head. Something nagged him about that interview with Miss Errington and as her house came into sight, he rang the bell and took a chance on her being at home and willing to see him.

  His summons went unanswered but he was conscious of being watched and glancing quickly at the upstairs bow window, he saw a shadow that moved - a shadow wearing a lace cap and he was in time to glimpse a face quickly withdrawn as the curtain fluttered back into place.

  He prepared to wait. It would obviously take her a little time to negotiate stairs unaided and by the time she appeared at the door in her wheelchair he was feeling cold and out of humour.

  There was no maid in attendance and she greeted him with an impatience equal to his own.

  'May I?' he asked and without awaiting her permission, he stepped boldly past her and into the hall.

  Her lips tightened when he announced that there were a few questions covering one or two aspects of Molly's employment with her that he would like to clarify.

  'If you would be so good-'

  'Such as?' she interrupted. 'I have told you all I know about my companion.'

  Companion now, was it? Again he was conscious of that lack of personal grief, the all-absorbing self-interest that made her regard Molly's horrific end as a personal inconvenience, a twist of fate sent personally to thwart her, to blight the smooth running of her everyday existence.

  Or was indifference a screen for something more sinister?

  'Would you be so good as to tell me exactly what happened as far as you can remember in those few minutes before Molly left the house to mail your letter?'

  'I cannot recall anything unusual in her behaviour,' Miss Errington said stiffly.

  Faro took out a notebook which she eyed with considerable disfavour. If he had made an improper gesture it could hardly have been less graciously received.

  'I would like a list, as far as you are aware, of every tradesman with whom Molly would come into contact, or who calls at the house.'

  The question raised an eyebrow. Pursing thin lips, she gestured with her hands. 'I have absolutely no idea about such matters, they are not of the slightest interest to me. Why on earth should you want such bizarre information?'

  Faro suppressed a weary sigh. 'This is the usual procedure in murder investigations, madam. The information is circulated to our police constables who will pursue their inquiries most thoroughly by ascertaining if any of the tradesmen knew Molly or had friendly dealings with her.'

  'Friendly, indeed!' was the shocked response. 'I cannot imagine Molly being acquainted with such - persons.'

  Faro smiled wryly. 'Then I think you might be surprised to know how often servants confide in one another.'

  'Confide,' she murmured as though the word conjured up more lurid visions than intimacy. 'And will such information help you track down whoever killed her?'

  'That is the general assumption, madam. All such information gathered together can lead to evidence which will give us some indication of how our inquiries should proceed.'

  She nodded assent, staring beyond him into the dark shadows beyond the stairs.

  There was no more to be gained and Faro was relieved to shake off the aura of the house. Cold and gloomy in winter, he suspected it would not be greatly improved by summer, when sunlight became the aggressor, the enemy to be sternly held captive outside shuttered windows in case its invasion faded the worthless pictures, the tired fabrics of dreary furnishings.

  'Inspector - here!'

  A sibilant whisper came from beyond the railings. A face, Adie's face, looked up at him from the basement kitchen door.

  'I've just got back. I was coming up to see if madam wanted tea 'cos she won't pay to have the bell fixed - and I heard what you were saying. So I stayed put.' She looked at him triumphantly. It was a look that he had recognised many times in the past. She had information.

  'Well?'

  'Just that she's an awful stickler for the truth, but she's no' telling it herself,' she added with a touch of malice. 'They had another awful row that day. Madam was always accusing her of thieving things and Molly was threatening to leave. She hinted that she had the offer of another job.'

  Which accounted for the presence of that reference, thought Faro as Adie smiled delightedly at catching out her mistress in a lie.

  Faro went away thoughtfully. A cripple defeated by disability and by life itself relying on a young active woman, living year after year in a cheerless atmosphere. A soul-destroying daily routine, the long hours of each day slowly ticking away on that asthmatic grandfather clock in the hall, with no other mortal save a kitchenmaid, set apart from them by her lower rung on the social scale.

  He frowned, trying to remember. Was he missing some vital clue? Was it there in the house and he had overlooked it again? He considered Miss Errington, had noted that although her legs covered with a rug were undoubtedly fragile, her hands and arms were strong, as is often the case with invalids confined to wheelchairs.

  Going down the path, he glanced at the upstairs window. Had it been Miss Errington in her white cap which concealed her hair? If so, if she was truly disabled, how had she negotiated that long flight of stairs unaided before getting into her wheelchair to greet him, if such a total lack of kindliness could be so called?

  That bothered him. It might be significant, but not so significant, however, as the infernal red mailbox which loomed into view. Molly had walked straight past it with the letter in her hand, angry with Miss Errington after a blazing row. But why had she headed in the direction of Coffin Lane?

  What on earth was she doing in that lonely spot on such a bitter evening? What had been her destination, or more likely, her assignation? He would have given much to know if her threat to find another situation was in earnest. Or was she secretly on the game too, he wondered, remembering Rita now recovering from shock.

  True, in summer Coffin Lane took on the more benign aspect of a lovers' lane and the 'girls' were known to include it in their beat, wandering along in search of solitary clients from the golf course, with hopes of earning a quick shilling in the hedgerows at the base of Arthur's Seat. But clients would be unlikely to be tempted with four uncomfortable inches of hard-packed snow on the ground.

  The mystery remained: what or who had enticed her to this deserted area?

  There were two important questions still unanswered. If it wasn't Miss Errington he had glimpsed at the upstairs window, then who was she concealing? And more important, why?

  That gave rise to a new possibility. Could Molly have been attacked before she left the house? Was that the reason for her disorientated flight? Was Adie's account just malice, or was there more to it? Now he imagined Molly running away terrified from someone in the house, someone angry, who had attacked her with the kitchen knife.

  He shook his head, and pondering the imponderables, his footsteps led him back to the High Street, where he found to his annoyance that the antiquarian bookshop was closed.

  There was no notice on the door but the thunder of the one o'clock gun from the castle ramparts reminded him that this was dinner time in Edinburgh. Rather than waste any more time, he decided to return to the hospital and see how Rita was progressing.

  He was met by PC Dean, who had been on duty. His expression, grave and angry, told Faro more clearly than any words what to expect: 'Sorry, sir, she died an hour ago. Poor lass, poor lass.'

  Chapter 11

  Conan caught up with Faro as he was leaving the hospital.

  'I'm on my way back to the surgery. Nothing I can do now.' He sighed. 'A
sorry business.'

  'Not what I expected to find,' said Faro.

  Conan nodded. 'Nor I. The unknown factor - it appeared that she was an asthmatic. In the normal way she would have recovered, but the shock as well as the loss of blood sent her into a coma and killed her.' He paused. 'Your constable was quite shattered. It would seem he was on friendly terms with her. I didn't enquire whether that was in the line of business,' he added wryly. 'Seems that she lived by herself in one room in Fetters Close.'

  'What about the child?'

  Conan shook his head. 'Adopted a couple of years ago. Usual story, according to Dean. She felt it would be a better life for a wee girl never knowing the truth about her real mother.'

  Outside, it was snowing again, the white purity of innocence spreading a blanket over the evils of the day.

  'I'm going back to the institution, to see if they have any news of my missing patient,' said Conan grimly. 'What about you?'

  Faro pointed towards the High Street. 'The antiquarian bookshop, I think.'

  Once again he found the shop closed. He tried the door leading to the flat above which he presumed might be the old man's residence.

  There was no reply. Directly across the road was a tobacconist and snuff-seller's shop. A man who had been watching his activities with some curiosity through the window now came to the door.

  'Dr Benjamin, you mean,' was the cheery response to Faro's enquiry. 'Came in two or three days syne for his baccy.' The man looked thoughtful. 'Mind you, sir, he was awfa' sniffly, didna' look great at all. I says to him: "Reckon you're coming down with the influenza." "Aye, you're right there, Bob." "Take to your bed, sir, and keep warm. That's always the best treatment. With a dram or two, ye'll be grand the morrow." "Aye, Bob," says he, "that's what I'll do." '

  As he paused for breath, Faro seized the opportunity to ask, 'And you haven't seen him since?'

  Bob stared across the road. 'Not a sign of him. But that isn't unusual even when he's well. He keeps his own counsel.'