Akin to Murder Page 7

  ‘Dunno about that, didn’t see none. But he looked a fine, respectable young gentleman,’ he added reassuringly. A shake of the head, a disapproving: ‘Too young and grand to be her sweetheart, if she ever had one, that is. And even if she was struggling a bit, I reckoned it was none of my business. Besides, Tibbie’s a bit deaf, mebbe that was why he was having to shout at her.’

  Faro left him with a feeling of unease. The picture conjured up was a sinister one. If Celia had been run over and killed deliberately and Tibbie had seen the runaway carriage, then she would be in danger. And so might Mrs Brook, in whom she had confided.

  The fine day had faded and there was a chill wind blowing across the landscape, which looked considerably less attractive under heavy grey clouds, bringing with them a threat of rain. By the time he reached home, tired and footsore, he decided to delay calling on Mrs Brook, hoping that his fears were wrong and Tibbie would have been in touch with her.

  As he opened his garden gate, thankful the hammering was over for the day, he decided worrying must be infectious, or did it come with marriage and a family, even a happy one?

  Lizzie’s welcome smile and a hug always gladdened his heart. Vince was out with Coll. Was he hungry? When he said that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, Lizzie was shocked at such appalling information.

  ‘Of course you can’t wait for supper, dear. Here you are,’ she added, placing a piece of leftover pie on a plate.

  Vince came in with Coll and was tempted to share it. That didn’t affect his appetite as Lizzie, with a mother’s gratification, watched him having a hearty meal with them later. Or so it seemed, although it was for a very good reason that they knew nothing about. He was now eating for two, himself and a hungry gypsy confined to the disused stable with an injured ankle.

  At least it was a comfortable lodging, Vince thought, the old loose boxes still filled with straw were reasonably warm, especially with the blanket he had whipped from the clothes line and had to listen to his mother outraged that this was a theft by one of the those gypsies. At least she was wrong about that and he wondered anxiously how long it would be before Charlie was fit to go on his way. And of more pressing concern, just how long he could get away with feeding him and concealing his presence from his mother and stepfather?

  He had looked in at the stable on his way to school, hoping that the gypsy he had befriended would have gone. But there he was, lying asleep under the stolen blanket with the empty plate, which had contained Vince’s second helping of last night’s supper. He hoped he could sneak it back into the kitchen and that, given that he had done the washing up, his mother hadn’t noticed it was missing.

  Charlie stirred sleepily.

  ‘Hope you were warm enough,’ Vince said.

  ‘Thanks, yes. The blanket helped a bit.’

  ‘How’s your ankle?’ Vince asked eagerly.

  Charlie stood up, staggered a few steps and winced. He groaned. ‘Still too sore to do anything like walking.’ He grimaced, then forced a smile. ‘I’m always in danger if they come after me, you know.’ Sighing, he bent and rubbed his ankle doubtfully. ‘Hope it won’t take long to mend.’

  Vince hoped so too. He was also in danger.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In the Central Office, Gosse greeted Faro in an unusual good humour, rubbing his hands with glee.

  ‘Got him this time, Faro, and caught off that train with his victim’s money on him. Not even sense enough to get rid of the wallet by throwing it out of the window.’

  He laughed. ‘McLaw must be slipping, not the wily bird he once was. He’s slipping, losing his nerve.’ And rubbing his hands together, ‘Aye, all the better for us. They’re holding him at Glasgow. I’m going through to collect him.’

  Faro was a little surprised until Gosse added: ‘Not trusting that to any of their constables. Want to make absolutely sure this time that I put the cuffs on him, see him safely to he gallows and deliver him in person to the hangman,’ he added grimly.

  Taking down his greatcoat, he said: ‘I’m off to catch the train now. No more delays. I’ll take Bain with me. You go down to Alwick, take the train and sort out that insurance business for the hotel fire. The insurance folk aren’t satisfied, they’re suspicious and want us to investigate.’ He pointed to the paper on the desk: ‘Seems they’re claiming vast sums for valuable pictures and jewellery destroyed.’

  Faro was quite relieved that he was not to accompany the inspector, who huffed and puffed each day about his busy life, and although some minor officers like himself could have made the Glasgow trip and collected McLaw, Gosse enjoyed sending him on errands such as this insurance investigation. It made sure he was kept well in the background with no more chances of promotion, always hoping that he might make some gross error and be demoted back to the beat.

  The Pleasance, just minutes away from the cottage, was the terminus of a local train, the Edinburgh and Dalkeith Railway, built in 1831. Familiarly known as the Innocent Railway, this was not due to the legend that no one was ever killed while it was being built, but because it was originally horse-drawn in an age where steam engines were still considered dangerous. Originally laid down for the purpose of conveying coal from pits in Dalkeith into the capital, to the surprise of the promoters the public rapidly took to this convenient and novel way of travelling, and, particularly with the lure of the Musselburgh Races, it became as lucrative and important as freight to the railways, with open carriages, wagons and converted stagecoaches supplementing the rolling stock.

  Surveying the map, the Alwick Hotel was at Dalhousie, one of the halting stations on the line, and Faro decided that if he made good time with the insurance claim enquiry then Gosse was doing him a personal favour. He could continue the journey on a later train and visit the poorhouse at Belmuir, a couple of miles beyond Dalhousie and another halt just short of the terminus at Fisherrow. Although not particularly hopeful, he might find some answers to the mystery of Agatha Simms’s empty coffin.

  Faro loved trains, any kind of train, and it was a pleasant, relaxing experience to escape for a few hours, away from his normal daily routine and into the surrounding countryside without the smoking chimneys of Edinburgh’s ‘auld Reekie’ clouding the horizon and a seamless landscape of hills, undulating fields and sky.

  He sat back in one of the wooden seats and sighed with relief as, leaving the Pleasance, they went through the long tunnel at the base of Arthur’s Seat, a tunnel which was already the bane of the railwaymens’ lives since local residents had decided that it was a suitable dumping ground for all manner of rubbish, including the occasional broken chair or old mattress.

  Emerging into daylight again, Faro decided to make the most of travelling on this tranquil, sunny day along the coastline of East Lothian with its fine views across the Firth to the coast of Fife. As they steamed through tiny villages, a happy reminder of the railway’s origins, where else would one find a railway board at all stations forbidding the drivers to stop by the way to feed their horses?

  Enjoying the journey and in no particular hurry, he reached Dalhousie, the hotel with its scarred windows clearly visible as he left the station. He had to stoop to enter the unprepossessing original entrance still with its lingering smoke fumes. Kept waiting while a sullen barman went in search of Mr Evans, he studied his surroundings. Once this had been a coaching inn, a stop for travellers on the drove road south; a sprawling, ancient building, more for convenience than comfort it had been updated some twenty years ago by the present owner, the main reason for this achievement inspired by the hope of attracting racegoers from Musselburgh wishing to extend their visit and spend their winnings in a fine, modern country hotel.

  Such was the hint of the ragged poster in the public bar, which had miraculously escaped the fire, confined to the main house. Distant voices, footsteps and the barman returned alone, shrugged and said: ‘Manager says you’re to wait, he has things to sort out.’

  Faro decided that a little conversation to fi
ll the interlude might be useful and illuminating. ‘You were here on the night of the fire?’

  ‘I was not. It was early morning, I was asleep in my bed, the public bar closed.’ The barman’s mouth also closed firmly. With an unkempt appearance, sadly in need of a shave and a bath, he was no good advertisement for the poster either, thought Faro.

  ‘Have you been here long?’ he asked, addressing the man’s back while he thoughtfully regarded, as if counting, the bottles shelved behind the counter.

  ‘Too long. I’m leaving the day,’ was the brisk reply as he indicated a large sack, presumably luggage, propped up against the wall.

  ‘No more customers to attend?’

  The barman gave him a withering glance. ‘Not even if there was one, I’m still going. Never been paid, that’s why.’

  ‘The fire, of course, I understand there might be a problem.’

  ‘Not the fire, even before, mean as hell, the old devil.’ And warming to the theme, ‘Never had any money, been run at a loss for months, owes everyone for miles around. In fact, the fire was the best thing that could have happened to him.’ A shake of the head. ‘Aye, it was that.’

  The best thing as described was somehow sinister, it implied arson, and Faro was appreciating this information as Mr Evans came in, or rather stumbled in, clutching an empty glass and bringing with him the strong reek of whisky.

  ‘What is it you want?’ he demanded.

  Slowly, clearly, Faro explained the reason for his visit, the insurance claim and so forth while Mr Evans listened, nodding from time to time impatiently and darting vicious glances in the direction of the sullen barman who was viewing with interest from behind the counter this interchange between his late employer and the new arrival.

  Without the politeness of offering Faro refreshment, Evans tapped the empty glass, yelling: ‘More!’

  ‘Help yourself,’ was the reply as the barman brushed him aside, picked up the sack and departed.

  ‘Ungrateful bugger!’ was hurled after him. ‘Glad to be rid of him, for a start.’ And staring balefully at Faro he demanded suspiciously, ‘And what, may I ask, is your interest in this fire which ruined me? From the insurance again, are you?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m a detective. The insurance wish for some—’

  Evans interrupted by thumping the table. ‘Bringing in the police, are they? I’ll not have that—’

  ‘You will need to attend to their requests, sir,’ Faro reminded him firmly, ‘if you wish to receive the compensation you have applied for, which they consider rather difficult to justify.’

  ‘Difficult to justify, is that it?’ Scowling, Evans dragged out a sheaf of papers from his pocket and thrust them at Faro. ‘We’ll see about that.’

  The next half-hour was very tedious as Evans shouted and blustered while Faro tried to make him understand that this claim was not only insubstantial, but if Evans insisted, he might find himself not only not receiving one penny but also standing in the dock facing a charge of arson.

  Having made his point, at that Faro took his leave, watched by a somewhat subdued and nervous Evans whose wife, a dishevelled blonde bearing a bottle of whisky, put in a late appearance. Evans could expect no sympathy from her. She was shouting abuse at him, an expert in foul language, and Faro could still hear every word as he thankfully made his way back across the road.

  Consulting his map, following the general direction of the railway line, a two-mile walk would take him to his next call, hopefully less strident, at the poorhouse at Belmuir.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Faro was faced by an unexpected dilemma as the poorhouse loomed on the horizon. He had not given any thought as to how to make an entrance, or invent a reason for his visit, realising that he could hardly roll up without some valid excuse. Even in plain clothes, a policeman making enquiries about an empty coffin, or rather one filled with stones, if Tibbie’s second-hand description was correct, would cause a flutter of unease at least, and perhaps even panic among the residents.

  Having followed the path by the railway line, it emerged by the rear of the building where he watched idly as several men carried out large boxes, their contents marked, ‘garden produce – fragile’, presumably to load on to the train to Edinburgh.

  Having been out since early morning and it was now late afternoon, his feet were sore and he was in need of some refreshment since none had been offered him on his two duty calls. He sighed, regarding the approaching train steaming towards the halt and had a sudden, almost irresistible longing to be boarding it and going home.

  He had not yet seen the front of the building, but the back suggested that it was large and probably of the same ugly institutional design that marked its kind. He was now regretting his promise to Mrs Brook, made on an impulse to be kind because she was so distraught with her incredible tale of the two estranged sisters and the sinister burial. As for the missing Tibbie, he should have contacted her before making this journey, as it seemed highly unlikely that the poorhouse would have any useful information in their records of the orphan girl who had left them long ago.

  He knew he had been unwise to so rashly get himself involved, when there were more urgent events needing his attention. At least by the time he returned, Gosse would be back from Glasgow, triumphant, with McLaw. Faro could picture him, sitting at his desk, basking in the glory as if the recapture had been all his own work. After the many sightings leading nowhere, this would be a relief for them all, one to score off the daily routine list.

  He was hungry and glimpses through the trees of a stately home on the skyline suggested a large estate on which the poorhouse building had been erected, while smoke from surrounding chimneys unseen hinted at some form of habitation. He would take his chances on a village and the existence of a tavern.

  He was in luck for Belmuir resembled a feudal village with a cluster of houses overlooked by a castle forming a neat square round a green, while the presence of an inn sign cheered him as the most likely place to gather useful information and a tactful approach for his enquiries.

  The Coach and Horses was a vast improvement on the Alwick Hotel and he took a seat at a clean, well-scrubbed table with an appetising smell of cooking lingering in the air.

  The man who came forward, smartly dressed with a white towel over his arm, suggested this was the landlord. With a welcoming smile and an amiable greeting, he asked Faro for his order. A pie and a pint of ale would do nicely.

  He departed through the closed door of the kitchen and a few moments later a serving-man about his own age approached, and as he silently went about setting the table to Faro’s requirements, his anxious, preoccupied look had nothing to do with any pressure of other customers waiting to be served and Faro decided they must have some other cause.

  ‘This is a fine place. Been here long?’

  ‘I live here.’ The answer was tinged with scorn, and Faro, naturally curious about why a handsome, well set-up young man was trapped in an isolated country tavern, although a second glance readily identified him as the landlord’s son, decided to ask some more questions.

  ‘A very agreeable place to live. I envy you, given I come from the depths of the city.’

  With a shrug and no further comment, Faro was left to enjoy his excellent pie, his window seat providing a fine view of the mansion brooding on the hill. He exchanged a polite nod with the only other customer, an old man with a long white beard sitting at the bar who had watched him come in. Landlords and barmen at a quiet time of the day, or customers with a free drink, tend to be gossipy, particularly when in an area where not very much usually happens and there is a local murder still making news.

  Faro was hopeful as the landlord, with a more affable manner than the serving-man, hovered nearby and, realising Faro was a stranger to these parts, was politely curious, so Faro invented a story about living in Edinburgh and wanting to bring his wife and family to such a delightful place in the summer.

  ‘There’s not much in the way of accom
modation hereabout, we don’t cater for visitors, but you might find something up there,’ said the landlord, pointing towards the hilltop. ‘Things aren’t what they were before the old gentleman passed away, and these days the new laird might be glad to help you.’ The frown that accompanied this latter statement indicated that there was not a lot of money at the big house.

  The solitary customer, a regular judging by his hearty greeting with the landlord, joined them. He was also curious about this stranger and having overheard their conversation, he nodded to Faro.

  ‘Excuse my interruption, sir. We let rooms if you’d be interested,’ he added eagerly.

  Faro interpreted the shake of the landlord’s head, that only he could see, as a warning. ‘Comfortable room and good plain food,’ said the old man.

  Faro’s offer of a pint of ale was gladly accepted, received and paid for. The landlord, feeling his services were no longer needed, took his leave and the old man who introduced himself as Ben Hogg sat down and prepared to talk at some length about the excellence of the accommodation on offer.

  While he was drawing breath to drain his pint, Faro seized the opportunity to get a word in. ‘Is it a safe enough place?’

  A frown. ‘Why do you ask that, sir?’

  ‘Well, my wife, she’s a bit nervous. You know, after all that business we read in the newspapers.’

  Ben laughed. ‘Oh, you mean the McLaw lass. She deserved all she got. He shouldn’t have killed her but we were all a bit sorry for him. What a life he had; she was well known not only in Belmuir but to everything in trousers that set foot in the place. Poor bugger, he didn’t seem to notice, either.’

  Seeing that the old man was inclined to be talkative, this offered an unexpected opportunity to explore the dead woman’s background.

  ‘You knew McLaw?’

  Ben nodded. ‘Aye, everyone knew him. Came down from the Highlands looking for a job and got it with us in the gardens up at the poorhouse over yonder. Hard worker, right enough.’ He shook his head. ‘Didn’t seem an ounce of violence in him. Nice, gentle lad, loved flowers. But you never can tell, can you?’ Pausing, his nod indicated the landlord, ‘Joe Robson, here, the lassie’s stepfather, looked after Annie and her sister Nora – she made a good, respectable marriage.’ He sighed. ‘Before McLaw came along we all thought Annie would marry Frank.’