Murders Most Foul (3 page)

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.

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.’

Gosse said coldly that punishment was police business, not his, but the old man shook his head firmly. ‘Any man who hits me – that is my business. And now can I go home?’

‘Where’s home?’ Faro was taking notes while Gosse did all the questioning.

‘Liberton Brae. I was on my way home to see my daughter when it happened.’

A nurse approached with a bundle of clothes. ‘You’re free to go home now, Mr Webb.’

‘Anything missing?’ the old man demanded. ‘I had two shillings in my pocket.’

‘There they are.’ And she shook out a handkerchief, two coins and a playing card.

Faro picked it up. The nine of diamonds.

Gosse seized it from him. ‘Where did you get this?’

The man shrugged. ‘Never seen it before in my life.’

‘Are you sure?’ Gosse demanded suspiciously.

‘Course I’m sure,’ was the indignant reply. ‘I’m a temperance man since my wife died years ago. Never play cards, don’t approve of gambling, either. Wife was God-fearing. Always—’ he began.

Gosse interrupted shortly: ‘If you remember anything about the man who attacked you—’

‘I’ll let you know, officer. I want to catch him too, you
know.’ Aware that the two policemen were edging away from the bed, and anxious not to lose his audience, he said: ‘Wait till I tell you about the time I was fighting in the ring, when I won cups, belts and things – it was in the newspapers—’

Gosse wasn’t prepared to listen. Motioning to Faro, he shouted over his shoulder: ‘Let us know if you remember anything else about last night, will you?’

Hurrying along the corridor they were overtaken by a young doctor. ‘Excuse me, officer,’ he said. ‘The old man who was attacked, Jock Webb – I’m afraid he’s been in here before.’ He paused to tap his forehead significantly. ‘Found wandering a couple of times, fell and hurt himself. Don’t take too much notice of what he’s been telling you about being attacked. He thinks he’s still in the boxing ring.’

‘You mean he’s imagined the whole thing, made it all up, getting us over here, wasting our time?’ said Gosse angrily.

The doctor frowned. ‘Well, it could be true, sir. We just weren’t sure. When we examined him, he definitely had marks on his throat this time. Might be quite genuine, but I thought I should warn you. He doesn’t always know where he is. Likes the opportunity to remind folk of his days as a prizefighter—’

Gosse snapped an abrupt thanks, and at the exit, he handed Faro the report the nurse had given him, complete with the man’s home address. ‘Look into it. Talk to the daughter.’

Faro glanced at the notes, guessing that there would be little information forthcoming at Liberton Brae about an old man already having problems with his memory.

Only the nine of diamonds in Webb’s pocket had a sinister ring of truth about it. Perhaps Gosse was right and its presence at the Pleasance murder, one card among a whole pack, was sheer coincidence. But Faro was now convinced, with the appearance of this one particular card, that the attack on Jock Webb must be linked to the woman in Fleshers Close.

Faro said: ‘That playing card, sir. Like the others. What do you think?’

At his side, Gosse growled: ‘I’m already thinking, Faro. And do you know what – I think he could be lying. Has it not occurred to you that we have maybe solved the crime of the murdered whore? He might well be our killer,’ he added in tones of excitement.

Faro said: ‘Hardly likely, sir.’

‘You’re not seeing the obvious once again, are you?’ was the contemptuous response. ‘He could have attacked this man, who unexpectedly fought back, and he became the victim himself.’

It did not seem even remotely feasible to Faro that an old man who, according to the young doctor, was showing all the symptoms of dementia, wandering about and already known to the Infirmary, could be the killer. When he said so, Gosse looked angry and said sharply: ‘That’s just it – an elaborate pretence. You don’t see into the minds of murderers as I do, Faro. Wait until you’ve had years of chasing criminals like I have before you lay down hard-and-fast rules of behaviour. They are up to doing anything to conceal their vile purposes – no character is too difficult for them to assume.’

Faro listened, knowing further comment was useless. All
this fitted so neatly into Gosse’s anxiety and determination to pin down the woman’s murderer as quickly as possible, stretching a point here and there if necessary, to put it mildly.

At the Central Office, McIvor was waiting for them.

Another death had been reported: a woman’s body was waiting in the mortuary.

Gosse sighed as he and Faro parted company. ‘Just a suicide this time, thank God. Off the North Bridge.’

The bridge above the railway station was a favourite place for desperate, unhappy people, particularly young females, betrayed by lovers and more than often pregnant, eager to leap into oblivion and put an end to their disgrace.