Except a loving husband, I thought as I said, 'Taking employment is ruled out and you think her sister may know her present whereabouts and be keeping it secret. You suggested that she might have been concealing her when you called.'
He nodded grimly. 'Those were my thoughts exactly.'
'So she might still be there, regarding her sister's home as a refuge.'
'No. That is quite impossible,' he said briefly. 'It would have been only a very temporary arrangement. It's a tiny house, not at all what Nora is accustomed to. There are very few luxuries. Nellie's husband Ben is a dock labourer. He's a rough sort of chap, not like us, if you know what I mean.'
He paused, expecting comment from me. There was none.
'He drinks a lot and I can't see him willingly taking in another mouth to feed. Their two girls are married and away, he was thankful to be rid of them, according to Nora.'
He shook his head. 'No, Ben would be the last person to take Nora to live with them. He neither cares for her nor feels he is under any obligation for her welfare.'
I was silent, aware that I'd learn a lot about Desmond by a talk with Nellie's husband.
He was watching me making notes. I read over the salient points and said, 'There is one more question I must ask you, Mr Marks. Perhaps one that hasn't occurred to you yet.'
'And what is that?'
'Have you any reason to suspect that your wife was being unfaithful, that there was - perhaps - another man in her life?'
In reply Desmond put both hands on his knees, slapped them soundly and, throwing back his head, roared with laughter. The gesture shocked me, such merriment seemed inappropriate and somehow quite indecent.
Shaking his head, almost gasping for breath, he leaned forward confidentially. 'Mrs McQuinn, that is the one thing I can assure you is not, and never has been, in question. Nora might have had her reasons to feel angry with me.' He cocked an eyebrow at me. 'My behaviour has not always been out of the top drawer, if you get my meaning...'
I got his meaning quite clearly and it was at that moment I decided that I neither liked nor trusted him.
He was just too handsome, not that I would dislike a man for his good looks. Danny McQuinn was handsome but in a completely different way. He had the born in the bone, generations-old breeding of the Celtic race, back to the ancient tribal kings of Ireland. Far from this superficial glossy stage-managed exterior of the man sitting in my kitchen, bragging and sure of himself, certain in his belief that no woman could resist him.
And that was further confirmed when he added, 'I could swear on a stack of bibles that my wife never once looked at another man.'
There seemed little more to be said beyond advising him to notify the police.
This, I told him, was the usual procedure when someone has been missing for several days and anxiety about their whereabouts is being felt.
He agreed eagerly. 'I have already done so. I called in at the Central Office on my way here.'
His behaviour was keen enough to convince me that if he had killed Nora, then he was pretty sure of himself and had hidden the body very cleverly.
I thought about that. There were hundreds of caves and fissures on the vast expanse of Arthur's Seat large enough to conceal a body. And many within easy access of St Anthony's Chapel, no great burden for a big, strong man like Desmond to transport.
And a very good reason, I hadn't thought of before, for her being murdered there.
As he prepared to leave I decided he was probably telling the truth in one respect, at least: that Nora had never looked at another man although soon disillusioned by her handsome husband, whose goodness was all in the wrapping, as the saying goes.
Seeing him to the door, I said I would take on the case by visiting Nellie in the first instance.
He had her address on a slip of paper ready for me but I suspected Desmond knew even then that it would be a waste of time. He was in command of the situation, merely preparing grounds for his innocence by sending me off on a wild-goose chase. I was going to need a lot more than what I would hear of Desmond's character from a sister-in-law who disliked him. Much I expected to hear could be written off as biased and circumstantial evidence that Desmond Marks had murdered his wife.
Thane went with us to the door, his closeness at Desmond's heels eyed with trembling uncertainty, despite my reassurances regarding the deerhound's gentle nature.
Desmond's exit was very badly timed.
Jack was walking up the garden path. Almost the very last person I expected or wanted to see at that moment.
Chapter Eleven
I introduced Desmond to Jack.
They shook hands. I added, 'Mr Marks is a friend of Nancy's, from the Opera Society.’
Jack inclined his head politely, looked Desmond over with that shrewd all-encompassing policeman's regard. I felt that he was not impressed by what he saw, and that the mention of Nancy did not endear him to Marks either.
As Thane lunged forward to give Jack the usual tail-wagging boisterous welcome, goodbyes were said, hastier than strictly polite on Desmond's part.
Jack followed me into the kitchen.
'And what was all that about?' he demanded genially.
'Just another client,' I said, sounding casual and determined to be mysterious.
Jack looked at me. 'I thought it was just distressed ladies that interested you.'
I smiled enigmatically. 'A good-looking man makes a pleasant change.'
With every intention of leaving the matter there but hoping he might press for more details - be a mite jealous, for heaven's sake - I was disappointed when he seemed to have lost interest. With a somewhat perfunctory kiss he deposited a brown paper bag on the table.
'What's all this?'
'A present for you. From Ma.'
I unwrapped, carefully cradled in layers of newspaper, two pots of home-made jam, raspberry and strawberry, an apple tart on a plate and a large meat pie.
I was touched. 'How very kind of her, Jack.'
'She was really disappointed when you couldn't manage to come,' he added by way of reproach. 'They'd both been looking forward to meeting you. I said you wouldn't disappoint them next time.'
Suitably contrite but still firm in resolve not to be blackmailed, I promised a letter of thanks for such a lovely surprise as I tucked them gratefully on to the pantry shelves.
Jack was watching me.
'Perhaps you'd like a piece-'
'No, not for me,' he replied, patting his waistcoat. 'My mother's cooking is out of this world. Just wait till you taste it,' he added, knowing my weakness for a good meal. 'And she insisted I eat an enormous breakfast before I left this morning. Honestly, I couldn't take another bite.'
And the way he was looking at me as I closed the cupboard door hinted that he had other things than food on his mind. He put his arms around me, stroked my hair and whispered, ‘Well, what have you been doing while I was away? Enjoying yourself, I suppose.'
I shrugged. 'Seeing folks. Went to the rehearsal of Pirates with Nancy.'
'And...'
'And what?'
'Aren't you going to tell me about your new client?'
'His wife is missing. He's just notified your people but he wants me to find her.'
'When did you meet him?'
'Yesterday. He looked in after their rehearsal.'
'On a Sunday? It must be urgent.'
'What difference does the day make? Do the police stay in bed all day on Sunday and let criminals get on with it?' I said sarcastically.
But Jack wasn't going to let the subject rest there. His unwillingness to forgo facts revealed all the dexterity of a highly trained terrier with a particularly succulent bone.
In this case, the bone was called Rose McQuinn. I sighed. He would have to know the whole story sooner or later, so we sat down and, over a cup of tea, I told him all that had happened since the Pirates rehearsal with Nancy, about the coincidence of the constables' costumes and Nora's disappearance.
At the end I made the mistake of adding, 'I think you're well ahead of me now, Jack. You will have worked out the answer to this one.'
'Will I?' he asked, unable to resist the challenge.
'The facts all add up to the woman I found in St Anthony's Chapel.' I paused and gave him a look of triumph. 'I am almost certain she is Marks' missing wife.'
In face of all the evidence I had given, I expected him to applaud, to agree enthusiastically. Instead he merely froze and said rather coldly, 'Don't be ridiculous, Rose. Where do you get such ideas from?'
'What do you mean, such ideas?'
'I mean, pure coincidence and circumstantial evidence, that's what.' He sighed deeply. 'For heaven's sake, Rose, let's face facts. There never was a body-'
So we were back there again!
'Are you calling me a liar?' I interrupted indignantly.
'No. I'm just telling you not to be carried away by a natural mistake.'
'A natural mistake, is that what you call a dead body?'
'Stop it! And listen to me. We went back, there was no body, dead or alive. I've told you what happened. The woman fell and fainted, got up and walked back down the hill.'
'So you are calling me a liar, Jack Macmerry. Or saying I imagine things,' I said coldly.
'Not quite. That's more than my life's worth,' he grinned. 'Come on, take it calmly, let's say this new lady investigator business has gone to your head. Admit it, you had one rather spectacular success and it went to your head, just a little. Now you're so keen for clients, so anxious to be a successful detective, just like your father, that you are in serious danger of inventing crimes to solve.'
That was it. That was all I could take. I flounced from the table, I called him a lot of names. Very unladylike they were too, giving him the full benefit of my low-class life among the saloon girls of Arizona.
And I had the last word, the one I'd saved. 'Incidentally, Thane didn't like Mr Marks either. And I trust his instincts.'
'Thane! He's a dog, for God's sake. What does he know about human crimes, about murderers. Give me a break, Rose-'
I did. I showed him the door, banged it loudly after him. From the window, with Thane at my side, I watched him walk away. I was only certain of one thing. I hadn't seen the last of Jack Macmerry.
Or so I thought. He would be back.
Meanwhile I had work to do. I had a crime to investigate and at first light tomorrow morning I'd be on my bicycle heading for Leith to interview Desmond Marks' sister-in-law.
I have to confess that I love the challenge of a new investigation. It brings me closer to Pappa and I understand why solving crime was his raison d'etre, that blood rush of excitement at what he called his first clue - the prospect of following that single thread through the labyrinth.
It's in my blood too. I can't help what I inherited and Jack Macmerry can go hang!
He can't talk me out of it.
What makes me mad and determined to make a success of this new career is the knowledge that had I been a lad instead of a lass, no eyebrows would have been raised. The opposite in fact. As Chief Inspector Faro's son, I would have been encouraged to follow in his illustrious footsteps, by joining the City Police, and climbing the same ladder to promotion. I would have known from my earliest days that this was expected of me and I must not disappoint him.
But I had the misfortune to be born a girl. I wondered if this strange heredity is what binds me just a little to Jack and to Auld Rory. Both have thrived on danger and danger doesn't bother me, it puts me on my mettle, part of the chase.
And it is part of my being too since I've experienced more peril during the past ten years, in America's Wild West, than most middle-class Edinburgh ladies ever have nightmares about or could imagine, let alone endure in several lifetimes.
It is so unfair. Since my return home, I have seen more and more clearly that experience has set me apart from a conventional life. Settling down to the kind of marriage that Jack has in mind would be impossible.
Such were my angry thoughts as I rushed out to the barn, took out my bicycle, the signal for Thane to leave me and trot off back up the hill.
I rode down through Edinburgh on to Leith Walk. With some difficulty at last I found the address Desmond had given me, in a dark and gloomy depressed area of warehouses and coal staithes.
The streets were long and narrow, grey and faceless tenements five storeys high. Even the sea, visible beyond the harbour, looked gloomy and colourless, a very poor relative of the Firth of Forth visible from the top of Arthur's Seat.
Parking my bicycle in the lobby, I climbed several flights of stone stairs to the fifth floor, accompanied by pleasant smells of cooking and unpleasant smells of tomcats and urine. Knocking at the door, I was prepared for difficulties in persuading Mrs Nellie Edgley who I was, and why I was there. But she merely nodded and invited me into the kitchen, as grey as the building itself.
A well-scrubbed wood floor before the black-leaded range, a rag mat and two wooden chairs with cushions made from thinly disguised cast-off clothing. The walls were bare but for a sentimental print popular in my childhood - we had one in Sheridan Place - of a little girl hugging a big dog. This one, its colours sadly faded to grey-blues, hung above a box-bed recess at the far end of the room, a cheery prospect for the occupants' awakening. In many Edinburgh houses of a like nature, parents and young children occupied the same bed in the one and only room.
A lace curtain at the window concealed the view across the cobbled street into a similar high window of a depressingly similar tenement, their privacy also protected from prying eyes, should such curiosity be imaginable or desirable.
The room was cold; a few coals threw out smoke and little else. The house smelt of poverty which has a definite smell uniquely its own. In the closes of the High Street and here in Leith, even Mrs Edgley's attempts at neatness and cleanliness were futile. The miasma was there, indestructible and for ever, the lingering ghost of a battle constantly waged, and no amount of scrubbing and pails of hot water carried up five flights of stone stairs would ever disperse it.
Taking the uncomfortable chair opposite her, trying not to shiver at the intense cold, I could have written the story of her relationship with Nora Marks before she uttered her first words. She was pathetically eager to share her reminiscences regarding her sister, while I searched the pale drawn face, heavily lined by years of toil and hardship, for any likeness...
To the dead woman I had found in St Anthony's Chapel!
One thing became immediately obvious, that Nellie's curiosity equalled that to be expected of an acquaintance, a neighbour, rather than the deep concern and anxiety for a sister's disappearance. There was no indication of any great bond, so much became evident very early on.
‘There's twelve years between us, ye ken,' she explained. 'I was taken from the school and working in one o' the big houses by the time she was born.'
Her lips tightened in bitterness as she said that on her rare days off she was not allowed to enjoy herself, instead she was expected to look after her little sister. And I could hear through her voice a whole lifetime's resentment for the spoilt and indulged late baby of the family.
Worse was to come. When their parents died of consumption within a year of each other, Nellie had another role ready made, that of mother to Nora. She wasn't sorry when at eighteen Nora went off and married Desmond Marks.
'Not that it made ony difference, never made her think of all we'd done for her, bringing her up over the years. She put on airs, that she did, too good for the likes of Ben and me. As for her man, well he was a right snob. Thought himself no end of a gentleman 'cos he didna work wi' his hands...'
As she paused to draw breath, I had a feeling this tirade of resentment might drown the reason for my visit, so I put in hastily:
'Was there anywhere else she might have gone to? Any friends her husband did not know about?'
The answers were negative. Nellie hadn't the slightest idea.
I realized that her sister was a stranger to her and had probably been so from the day she was born. And most important for my investigation, her sister would be the last person Nora would ever confide in.
That set me thinking. If she had her own reasons for leaving Desmond then she had taken a fair chance that he wouldn't get any information out of Nellie. And if Desmond had killed her then his action of coming in search of her here might be to divert suspicion by craftily suggesting innocent anxiety.
She followed me to the door and said, 'Mind how you go, lass. There's a march on at the docks.'
'What kind of march?'
She gave me a pitying look. 'A protest march. The men want more money from the brewery, though God knows they'll only spend it on drink. My man Ben's one of them. He's gentle as a lamb and on his own, wouldna' say boo to a goose, and he's let the bosses trample all over him all these years. Just yelled at me about it all.'
She sighed. 'Men are like that. On their own they're harmless, scared of the bosses. But get them in a mob, and someone to lead and tell them what to do, get their angry feelings running high...' She shook her head. 'Then it's a different story. Once their blood is up, they can be right dangerous buggers. So you watch your step, keep out of their way. And if you see them coming look sharp.'
I assured her I had every intention of looking sharp and getting out of the area as soon as I could.
I had no reason or desire to linger. I hoped that riding home through the fresh air would get rid of the smell of dirt and poverty that clung to my clothes and in my hair.
Chapter Twelve
I walked back down the stone stairs and collected my bicycle from the lobby, feeling that the visit to Nellie Edgley had been a waste of time. From what I had heard from her, although it would be considered purely circumstantial in a court of law, I wouldn't take much persuasion to believe that Desmond had murdered his 'missing' wife.
The one thing I lacked was motive. Maybe he did want to marry Nancy, but that could have been a screen for my benefit and I wasn't prepared to believe that he was or ever had been passionately in love with anyone but his own image in the mirror.
Dangerous Pursuits (A Rose McQuinn Mystery) Page 9
