Enter Second Murderer (6 page)

"Leaving no tragedy for Shakespeare to write and enthral countless generations."

"Point to you, Stepfather." Vince laughed and, from the desk, produced paper and pen. "Now, back to the main business. Let us see. Are there any parallels between the murders of Mrs. Hymes and Lily Goldie that might offer us some clues, besides both being employed at the convent?"

Faro considered for a moment. "They were both young and pretty. They were even somewhat similar in appearance."

"Indeed, the same physical types."

"What else do we know?"

"From the post-mortem, that neither had been sexually assaulted," said Vince. "And Lily Goldie was not virgo intacta, but she had never borne a child."

"We know that Sarah Hymes had run away from her husband. He suspected her of infidelity, which was not proven, except on hearsay."

"A flirt who enjoyed teasing men and getting as much as she could from her admirers, at the same time giving as little as possible. What do we know about Goldie?"

"From your description of her at Duddingston Loch and her behaviour with the unfortunate Tim Ferris, wouldn't you say there was a very strong likeness there?"

"Exactly. If not ladies of easy virtue, then trembling on the very threshold. Goldie's background?"

"Quite respectable. An orphan, brought up by her great-aunt as companion in Galloway, which one can also interpret as an unpaid maid of all work. When the aunt, who had presumably seen that Lily was educated, died, then Lily came to Edinburgh and got a situation teaching at the convent."

"Was it coincidence that led them both to seek employment there at the same time? In view of their flighty characters, a convent does seem a remarkable choice."

"It isn't much to go on, but I think we might begin by calling upon the Reverend Mother, using Ferris's photograph as an excuse." Faro looked out of the window. "I think I'll take a walk to Greyfriars. Are you coming?"

Vince shook his head. "No, not this time, if you don't mind. I'm going to Cramond with Rob and Walter." He sighed and added, "I took flowers to Mama all the time you were away ..." He regarded Faro, sad-eyed. "You know, I can't believe she's there—or anywhere, any more. I wish I was small again, like Rose and Emily, and could believe that dear Mama had gone to heaven and was waiting there smiling in a white robe to greet us in due course. For me, she's just—lost."

Faro laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, a gesture that needed no words.

A grey colourless summer's day, with a high wind that turned the leaves inside out, added its melancholy to the deserted churchyard. Normally he came on Sundays, when his visit coincided with the emergence of churchgoers, but today he was glad that Vince had decided not to come. The atmosphere was oppressive, a day when it was difficult for anyone to believe that the dead were well and happy, patiently waiting in Paradise.

This was his first visit for several weeks and his path led him past a new marble stone: "Timothy Ferris, born 1849 died 1870. Erected by his fellow students in tribute to his memory."

That was a fine gesture for a poor lad who had no others to mourn him, Faro thought as he went on his way to that other almost new headstone which marked Lizzie's grave. Against a sombre background of urns and skulls and florid emblems of mortality, it stood out white and shining and simple.

He knelt down, attending to the flowers. He was not used to being so alone. Sunday afternoons normally saw many similarly employed in this most modern part of the burial ground. He missed the black-clad figures whose sombre attire turned the bright green summer grass into an irreverent frivolity, the widows' weeds, the men with their crepe-draped tall-hats, the children wearing armbands.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to conjure up a picture of Lizzie, not as he had last seen her in those terrible hours of agony before she died, but as she would most wish to be remembered-the smiling girl he had courted, the young and happy mother playing with Rose and Emily. Bending forward, he laid his right hand on the moulded earth in the region of her heart. He prayed, and then, as always, talked to her a little.

"What shall I do, Lizzie love? How does a fellow keep a promise to a dead woman, and one he only knew for half an hour?" Only the twittering birds answered him. "You don't know and neither do I. Your boy thinks I should do it—as a matter of honour, he says. He's a fine clever young man. You would be proud of him. And what's more, he's your image, Lizzie love, growing more and more like you every day. And that's a great comfort to me."

Dusting his knees, he kissed his fingers and laid them against her name so coldly upon the stone. Beset by a feeling of loneliness almost too great to be borne, he hurried back down the path, head down, jostled by the brisk wind.

Suddenly his attention was drawn to the grave of Tim Ferris, where a woman clad in grey, her face hidden in voluminous veils, stood alone. He saw that she wept. The wind fluttered a handkerchief, seized upon the swirling folds of her cape. The next moment she clutched her bonnet with its veils as both were swept from her hair to become entangled high in the shrubbery behind.

Gallantly, Faro dashed to her assistance and a delicate violet perfume assailed him. No sooner had he reached her side than her own fierce struggles released her. There was a final rending of cloth, and a moment later hat and veils were being firmly re-anchored.

But not before Faro had glimpsed a face of haunting beauty. He knew that he had met few truly beautiful women in his life. Now he and this stranger looked into each other's faces for a split second of time; the next instant, she turned away. He hovered still. Was he dismissed without one word of thanks? Sadly, that was the case. But there was more. He recognised the gesture as oddly furtive too. She did not wish to be recognised or remembered.

Turning on his heel, he walked away from that back so rigidly turned from him. He was a man in a dream, his heart thudding against his ribs, with a picture of red-gold curls, eyes of cerulean blue and a warmly seductive mouth sketched indelibly on his mind. Afterwards, trying to describe her to Vince, he could find no adequate words beyond: "Beautiful—exquisite."

"Young or old?" was the practical response.

"Neither. I mean, she could have been any age."

"Could she have been one of Tim's lady-friends?"

"Perhaps."

Vince sighed. "You aren't a great deal of help, Stepfather. Where are all those remarkable powers of observation."

"Blown to the four winds, I'm afraid."

"And taken your wits with them, if I might say so. Why, you're positively besotted. Exit bereaved husband, enter lovesick swain," he added cynically.

"That is hardly fair, Vince. I don't suppose I shall ever see her again—"

"I certainly hope not, if that was her effect upon you. How long did you say you stared at her?"

"Seconds only—a mere tantalising glimpse. But to use one of your modern terms, she was an absolute stunner."

"Well, there's another little mystery for us. What a pity we have no excuse for including this lovely lady in our investigations. I don't suppose you'll ever find out who she was, unless you're prepared to spend a considerable time in Greyfriars Kirkyard."

"It stands to reason that she must return to her unhappy vigil," said Faro firmly. "I shall go back next week at the same time, try and strike up an acquaintance." Vince's heavenward glance clearly indicated what he thought of his stepfather's infatuation.

The mysterious woman haunted Faro's dreams. He pursued her through the kirk-yard, but when he seized her veil it was poor dying Maureen Hymes who clung to him, weeping, murmuring over and over, "Promise . . . promise ..." Even as he supported her, the flesh melted from her skull and he found himself holding his dead wife. "You wept, begging me not to die. Begging me to return to you. Now you have your wish." The nightmare continued with Faro's bizarre reasoning as to how he was to reintroduce the decaying corpse of his dead wife to Mrs. Brook and, worst of all, wondering if her son would notice how his mother had changed.

Mercifully he awoke at that moment of horror. He was sweating, he felt sick and ill as he had done so long ago in Orkney when he knew that he had seen beyond the veil of death. His grandmother had been recovered from the sea at Orkney, by repute a "seal" woman, and his own family were endowed—or perhaps the better word was tainted—with that unhappy gift of second sight she had brought them. The dreadful nightmare from Greyfriars could neither be dismissed nor forgotten. It belonged to that unearthly no-time between sleeping and waking. And it could only be interpreted as a warning.

But of what?

Chapter 5

The Convent of the Sisters of St. Anthony belonged to an earlier age than the newly sprouting villas on Edinburgh's undeveloped south side. As the sixteenth-century Babington House it had enjoyed notoriety. Belonging to a scion of the Catholic family whose ill-fated plot for the escape of Mary, Queen of Scots had cost Anthony Babington a cruel death and had signed the death warrant of his queen, the Scottish Babingtons had managed to keep clear of the scandal. They had remained staunchly but secretly Catholic and had served the Stuart cause as best they could as secret agents, while managing to avoid any public declaration which would have meant sequestration after the Forty-five.

When the last member of the family, an elderly spinster, died in the early years of the century, the house and its park was willed to the Roman Catholic Church for use as a religious house. The Sisters of St. Anthony were a teaching Order, their school financed by selling the parkland as highly coveted building lots.

The ancient house had been, as Faro put it, "somewhat freely restored", with Queen Anne and Georgian wings added to the original tower. They entered by the modern extension, bristling with turrets and gargoyles on the outside and dark panelling and marble on the inside.

A lapsed Presbyterian and non-churchgoer, Faro found embarrassing such evidence of papacy as was exhibited by religious statues and a marble fresco of the Stations of the Cross. The faint smell of incense assailed their nostrils not unpleasantly, as they waited in the hall outside the newly built chapel.

The Reverend Mother's quick steps were almost inaudible on the marble floor as she came towards them, and over her normally immobile countenance flickered a look of distaste as she recognised the Inspector. She chose to ignore Vince's smile and proffered hand as Faro introduced them.

"Follow me." In the tiny, sparsely furnished ante-room, she did not invite them to sit down. Faro's immediate reaction was that their impromptu visit was an intrusion and that his presence, and what it implied, had upset her.

"We were hoping that you might be able to help us."

"In what way?" she asked coldly.

"In regard to Lily Goldie."

"I see," she said, in the tones of one who clearly did not. "Perhaps I should point out that it is in the best interests of our girls that their normal routine is not interrupted. I need hardly tell you, Inspector, that they were all very upset——as were the sisters." A note of annoyance shattered that calm face, pale as the wimple she wore. "Our pupils' work and our own meditations have been seriously affected by these disruptions. May one ask what you can hope to gain from these enquiries, since the unfortunate man has paid his debt to society?"

"If you would allow me to explain. We have no intention of publicly reopening the case. This is merely a routine enquiry following your letter and the discovery of the photograph in Miss Goldie's room. I wish to check certain facts—that is all. You may rely on my discretion to disturb your establishment as little as possible."

"Am I then to understand that you are acting in a private capacity?"

"Entirely."

"I see." The bloodless hands took on a supplicant's role, fingertips pressed together. "Very well. I will do what I can to help you."

"Were both girls of your faith?"

She looked at Vince coldly as if aware of his presence for the first time. "Naturally. We do not knowingly take heretics into our establishment. We employ only good Catholic girls."

"Am I correct in understanding that, though both were engaged at the same time, they were strangers to each other?" asked Faro.

The Reverend Mother shrugged. "There was no evidence of previous acquaintance. Besides, it is extremely unlikely since they were from completely different backgrounds; one a servant, one a teacher."

"I only asked because it did occur to me there might be some kinship."

"Kinship?"

"Yes, they looked alike."

"A coincidence." She thought for a moment. "Interesting that you should mention it though. I had on occasion mistaken each for the other—in outdoor dress that is—and out of uniform."

Vince's triumphant glance at his stepfather said: There you are.

"May I ask you something personal?" said Faro.

The Reverend Mother hesitated for a moment. "If it's something I can answer, then I will."

"What were your own feelings about these murders? I'm not sure what I'm looking for," he added frankly.

"I think I know." She smiled thinly. "Even nuns, Inspector, are not free from occasional flashes of what you might be tempted to call a woman's intuition. I'm afraid most of such feelings in my case relate to spiritual matters. Sarah Hymes was reluctant to go to Mass—now I understand the reason, since she had tainted her immortal soul with adultery and a tissue of lies. Lily, on the other hand, I felt was not what she pretended to be, by no means a good docile Catholic girl. I felt instinctively that she had not been reared true to the faith. I can almost," she added, with a delicate shudder, and a veiled glance at the Inspector and Vince, "detect in the air the presence of non-Catholics. And Lily seemed to be totally ignorant of many basic matters of our religion, which made me suspect she had lied in order to obtain the situation."