Murders Most Foul Page 9

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Faro’s instructions from Gosse were to follow up Jock Webb and interview him closely again. As the sergeant had already made up his mind, in the absence of any more suitable candidate, that the ex-boxer was his prime suspect, it seemed to Faro a complete waste of time and effort.

  He had other plans. Lizzie had told him that since her elevation to lady’s maid, her generous mistress was prepared to allow her extra time off duty, since her services of hairdressing and robing could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be required on those domestic evenings, sitting by the fire reading a novel or doing her embroidery, while her husband read the newspapers or frowned over reports concerning important financial activities he was involved in whilst keeping a strict eye on counting the pieces of coal the maid Betty had been summoned up from the kitchen to cast upon the dying embers.

  ‘They don’t go out much in the evening,’ Lizzie told Faro, ‘unless someone invites them to dine, that is. And the master disapproves of entertaining business acquaintances. Mrs Brown says he regards such hospitality very tiring and a waste of money, providing expensive wine plus lavish quantities of food which might go uneaten and have to be given to the servants.’

  Lizzie sighed. ‘Mrs Brown says he confines his own activities, such as lunches and dinners, to functions where, apart from his carriage and Mr Brown’s miserable wages, expenses can be met by the organisers.’

  Now that Lizzie’s time off was not confined to weekends only, Faro could see her most evenings. This was to his advantage as he could combine official business with the pleasure of her company, in this particular instance, taking her to the Vaudeville Theatre which she loved. In the interval he would make an excuse to see the manager and ask if any of the chorus girls had gone missing, and with that information begin his own enquiries regarding the real identity of the murdered woman in Fleshers Close.

  Suddenly fortune seemed to smile upon his plans, for there was another unexpected piece of luck awaiting him at his lodgings that evening. A note from his friend, retired detective superintendent Brandon Macfie, reminding him that he was due to have supper at Nicholson Square.

  Faro always looked forward to those evenings, a cosy warm parlour, walls lined with shelves housing Macfie’s library accumulated over the years, and where books could not be neatly accommodated, piled in every available corner.

  In all other matters, except where his precious books were concerned, Macfie was well ordered and meticulously tidy. Books, he pointed out, were his friends, companions of many years and of far greater value, Faro often thought, than the huge mahogany sideboard on which were displayed all the medals and honours Macfie had received in his long years with the Central Office. One photograph of which he was immensely proud depicted a visit to Balmoral, at the side of HM Queen Victoria in her carriage in the castle grounds.

  Part of the attraction of Faro’s company was that he had become a link with Macfie’s past life with the police and he liked to be kept up to date on the latest developments in crime-catching activities, information which had not yet filtered beyond the headlines of the news-sheets. All Macfie knew of this latest violent death was that a woman had been found dead, apparently murdered in Fleshers Close.

  As his housekeeper removed the soup plates and brought in the next course, Faro went over the gruesome findings, stressing that there was no identity as yet.

  Macfie had also read a brief paragraph in The Scotsman about the more recent death, a young maid’s suicide. He gave Faro a questioning look. Faro nodded and replied:

  ‘That is so, sir. The girl’s death was publicly notified as suicide; however, the police surgeon discovered that she had been strangled and her body then thrown over the bridge.’

  ‘Strangled, you say. That is interesting, an identical cause of death to the first woman. Do they suspect some connection between the two killings?’ was Macfie’s shrewd question.

  ‘Unlikely, sir. The first was a domestic murder, the husband gave himself up and is behind bars. The only connection between the two is a playing card found on the scene each time. The nine of diamonds.’

  ‘The curse of Scotland, eh.’ Macfie’s eyes gleamed. ‘That is extraordinary and implies that our killer has a knowledge of Scottish history and legends.’

  ‘There was one other instance, sir, which has not perhaps been reported publicly.’ And Faro went on to relate the murderous attack on the ex-boxer Jock Webb, with the identical playing card found in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Indeed? How did he account for that?’ said Macfie.

  ‘He denied all knowledge of how it had got there. Very indignant too. A temperance man since his retirement, anyway, he went on at some length about the sins of gambling.’ Faro paused. ‘This did not satisfy DS Gosse, however, who is anxious to regard him as prime suspect.’

  Macfie nodded. ‘Exactly. The man he claimed to be his attacker could have in fact been his intended victim who turned the tables on him. It has all been done before.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Where was this discovery made?’

  While Macfie topped up his whisky, Faro told him that it had been when his clothes were returned to him before leaving the hospital. Macfie frowned. ‘I know something of the legendary Jock Webb, saw him in a great many fights years ago, and the police had reason to caution him on several occasions. Slightly addicted to carrying on his boxing activities with threats outside the ring, but alas, let us say all his power was in his fists and I doubt, indeed, whether he ever read more than the sporting news, much less grasped the significance of Scottish history relating to the nine of diamonds.’

  Sitting back in his chair, he regarded Faro thoughtfully. ‘How much do you know of this extraordinary legend which has filtered down the years?’

  ‘Not a lot, sir. I had been led to believe that the order for the massacre of the McDonalds at Glencoe in 1692 was written on the nine of diamonds by Butcher Cumberland, who had his game of cards, where he had a winning hand, interrupted to write the order.’

  Macfie smiled. ‘That is the most popular belief; another is that it was the playing card used by Sir John Dalrymple, the Earl of Stair, to authorise the massacre – based somewhat loosely on the resemblance between the nine of diamonds and his coat of arms.

  ‘There are several other legends. In the card game, Pope Joan, the nine of diamonds was mockingly called “the Pope”, the antichrist of Scottish Reformers.’ He shrugged. ‘We must remember that diamonds imply royalty and there are royal connections. The nine of diamonds was the chief card in the game “Cornette” introduced into the Scottish court by our late unhappy Queen Mary. But according to an earlier account, her grandfather King James IV used it to draw up the battle ranks for that fatal field of Flodden.’

  And Faro remembered from his Orkney schoolmaster, from whom he had learnt the magic of history and who would have shared Macfie’s encyclopaedic knowledge, that Mary’s father James V’s last words, so sadly prophetic for the fate of Scotland, were ‘It came wi’ a lass, it’ll gang wi’ a lass.’

  Macfie rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘The woman in Fleshers Close – the one without an identity.’

  ‘Her reticule has never come to light. Presumably it fell from the carriage and into the clutches of someone eager to purloin its contents.’

  Macfie nodded. ‘Most likely, considering the area. What did you deduct from her appearance?’

  ‘A prostitute, according to Gosse. At first glance so much seemed obvious. She looked the part. A scarlet satin dress, powder and paint. But now, I’m not so sure.’ Pausing he shook his head, not at this stage wishing to divulge his encounter with Paul Lumbleigh, so he said, ‘I remembered seeing students outside the Vaudeville Theatre trying to entice one of the dancers into a carriage – she was dressed in scarlet, one of the chorus of dancers.’

  Macfie thought about that and, leaning forward, his dark eyebrows raised, he asked: ‘The motive, Faro. Let us not forget that, lad. For all murders, there has to be a motive,
and the inclusion of the playing card, the nine of diamonds, is a kind of autograph, a secret message from the killer.’ He shook his head. ‘These are not a madman’s random killings, lad. There is a connecting link between the two murders of the young women and the apparently unsuccessful attempt on the ex-boxer.’

  He paused to light his pipe, drew on it and then sat back in his chair, regarding Faro across the table. ‘The card was found among Webb’s possessions before leaving the hospital, you said?’

  Faro nodded and Macfie thought for a moment. ‘That might indicate, since our killer is an educated man, that he is to be found there.’ He shrugged. ‘Just a notion.’

  And Faro thought of Paul, a medical student with possible hours spent at the hospital. Macfie continued: ‘The small child you saw. Tell me about her again.’

  ‘I was concerned about her because I was sure she had been a witness to the killing, and I went back to see the woman who had snatched her up from the horrific scene and promised to take care of her.’ He frowned. ‘I realised that this was no neighbourly gesture and that she did not know the woman at all. She had a purpose of her own for misleading me. She had quite a brood of small children, supposedly her own, but the child presented a valuable asset. There was money in this so-called act of mercy and my doubts about her intentions came from a fleeting remark, proving she was prepared – even eager – to sell the little girl to me.’

  Macfie looked grim. ‘Child labour – or worse. Poor wee soul. There wasn’t much you could do, lad. It goes on and is ignored. The real curse of Scotland. So what clues do we have? A killer who leaves a significant playing card, which hints at a knowledge of Scottish history. So Gosse’s favourite prime suspect is unlikely to be the elderly ex-boxer. The one clue we have is that our killer is an educated man. From what we know, I would stress again that these killings are in the nature of executions.’

  Faro had an idea. ‘In that case, could there be a possibility that the link with the nine of diamonds lies perhaps in the surnames of the victims?’

  ‘Such as a McDonald of Glencoe descendant on the hunt for Campbells.’ Macfie shook his head. ‘An interesting conclusion but I fear rather too obvious and a little far-fetched.’

  As he paused Faro put in: ‘You maybe know that DI Wade is off the case, languishing with a broken leg in Inverness, and DS Gosse is now in charge.’

  Macfie laughed. ‘And not against the grain, I warrant. Knowing that gentleman, he will see hopes of promotion unlimited with one of his famous early convictions.’ The retired superintendent was well aware of Gosse’s regrettable tendency to nail evidence on his prime suspect.

  Faro said: ‘Since he now has a role of importance and has decided that Jock Webb is the killer, all responsibilities for proving his theory have been allotted to me, by regular interviews with his prime suspect.’ He sighed. ‘As I know the answers already, I have decided to pursue the matter of the unidentified woman on my own.’

  ‘You have this theory that she might have been an actress?’

  ‘I do indeed. Somehow she didn’t quite fit the role of whore that Gosse was so keen to tag on to her.’

  ‘So you think she may have been an unemployed dancer reduced to this unfortunate means of making a living.’

  ‘Certainly, if the child I saw was hers. Perhaps that was not what she was doing in Fleshers Close. I suspect she was killed elsewhere; the woman upstairs claimed to have been wakened by a disturbance, a carriage outside during the night.’ He shook his head. ‘I have a gut feeling, sir, that she wasn’t just someone the killer had picked up but that he was already acquainted with her, and in that costume, where better place to deposit her body than Fleshers Close with its notorious connections?’

  ‘The important omissions from the discovery of the body,’ he went on, ‘were that, although it was a chill night, she had no cloak and, more importantly, she was empty-handed.’

  ‘Precisely. The missing reticule. And is the playing card our killer’s signature?’ Macfie shook his head and sighed. ‘It’s quite a puzzle, lad. So what is your plan?’

  ‘First of all, a visit to the Vaudeville Theatre. A chat with the manager, or some of the dancers, see if any of them have failed to appear for rehearsals, apparently left without giving notice. It is usual, I gather, as a matter of economics, for several performers to share lodgings, so hopefully I might get an address.’

  Macfie looked grave. ‘Again, remember the motive. The connection between the Fleshers Close killing and the maid from Lumbleigh Green, in her case a murder made to look like suicide. Both by an identical method – strangulation. As there was no weapon – no scarf or stocking involved, as is the usual case in such murders’ – he paused, clenched his hands – ‘presumably these were his weapons. Strong hands, adept, perhaps indicating a soldier.’ He stopped and added grimly. ‘Or a boxer. Except that he was a victim – or claimed to be.’

  Pausing he nodded vigorously, ‘Somewhere between all three there has to be a link.’

  And they both knew without saying the words that to find that link, and the motive, they would have to put themselves inside the killer’s mind.

  Faro was preparing to leave when Macfie, aware that Lizzie was employed at Lumbleigh Green, asked him, as if in afterthought: ‘How is your companion Mrs Laurie faring in all this sorry business?’

  Faro was amused that he never referred to her as ‘your young lady’. That would have been too informal. Macfie was scrupulous in such matters and would have viewed questions regarding any romantic attachment – which Faro had been careful thus far not to indicate, nor had he confided even vaguely any intentions regarding Lizzie – as vulgar curiosity. As far as Macfie was aware, he only knew, as did the rest of Lumbleigh Green and Faro’s colleagues, that Lizzie was a widow he had befriended and that she had a young son.

  ‘It is deuced awkward, sir,’ Faro said, ‘since she has recently been promoted lady’s maid to Mrs Lumbleigh, and as you might imagine she found herself in danger of losing her situation by involving Lumbleigh Green with a police investigation. The maid Ida’s mother had come to the door in a panic that her daughter had not arrived home in Bonnyrigg that weekend for her birthday celebration. She insisted that her daughter was devoted and dutiful. She was in such a state that Mrs Laurie felt she had no option but to come to Central Office and notify Ida as a missing person. Mr Lumbleigh, however, was angry to say the least that she had taken the decision, without consulting him, of dragging his very respectable household into sordid speculations …’

  ‘To say nothing of reducing the value of his property’s selling price, no doubt,’ was Macfie’s candid rejoinder, wishing him good luck and asking to be kept informed of developments, and Faro left fully aware that, whatever he learnt, Macfie’s experience and his advice would be invaluable.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When Faro met Lizzie and they walked in Queen’s Park that mellow evening it was to learn that the master had caused further ructions when he heard via his wife that her maid was keeping company with a police constable.

  ‘He was terribly upset, Jeremy. Said to her that if that was not bad enough, worst of all,’ she suppressed a giggle and eyed him proudly, ‘this particular policeman was one of the detectives causing them so much personal inconvenience investigating Ida’s murder.’

  She sighed and took his arm. ‘I am frantic with worry, Jeremy. If I am dismissed, what will become of Vince? That concerns me much more deeply than my own future. Doubtless I will get another situation as lady’s maid in due course. Mrs Lumbleigh has been very pleased with my efforts and I’m sure she will give me an excellent recommendation to some of her friends.’

  Pausing, she looked towards Salisbury Crags. ‘But it is Vince I am so concerned about. If I leave Lumbleigh Green there will be no reason for him to stay with the Browns. And he is so comfortable in his wee attic in the cottage. It’s a room of his own and he is well fed and cared for.’ She shook her head. ‘I dread having to take him away back to
where we used to live, which is all I could afford. It was not the worst by any means, although now in comparison with the big house it seems quite dreadful.’

  She stopped to retie the strings of her bonnet which had become undone and Faro’s heart went out to her. She looked so pretty, so young and vulnerable; all his feelings were to protect her as she went on: ‘When I think of being poor again and having to live in some loathsome close, I can bear it, but it is Vince I tremble for. Living in nice surroundings is so good for him, for his future, and all that will be taken from him. Oh, dear, that wretched old tenement was bad then, but it seems like a nightmare now!’

  As far as Faro was concerned this conversation was a nightmare for him too; had Lizzie been able to see inside his head and read his thoughts, she would perceive how her words were once again a silent reproach, forcing him to consider how readily he could put an end to all her anxieties, her fears for the future – hers and her son’s – by uttering four simple words: Will you marry me? Such easy words that would be what Lizzie imagined was an entrance to paradise. Walking at her side, her arm in his, he suppressed a weary sigh. One day, sooner or later, this seemed like the inevitable conclusion of their present easy-going relationship.

  As for Vince’s future, he was surprised to hear that he had been befriended by Paul Lumbleigh, who was apparently taking a greater interest in a twelve-year-old schoolboy than Faro could have ever imagined, considering his damaged reputation.

  Lizzie was wide-eyed with admiration. ‘Master Paul is a keen reader and is encouraging Vince to like great writers of the past, even Shakespeare.’ She laughed delightedly as she added: ‘Vince has been showing me some clever card tricks that Paul taught him. He is so deft with his hands. They played whist and Vince always wins – that amuses Paul since cards are absolutely forbidden in the house.’ She paused and added guardedly, ‘Master Paul lost a great deal of money gambling at college and at the master’s club, which had to be repaid by his stepfather.’