At the shooting range, always a good shot thanks to his recent practice during the grouse-shooting season at Balmoral, he excelled himself until the proprietor begged him to leave.
‘Go away, sir, or I’ll be ruined. All my trophies gone, the stall laid bare,’ he pleaded despairingly.
Vince graciously returned all he had won. Glad I was of that, too, as I watched in horror an accumulation of dreadful china dogs and hideous vases – trophies that could not possibly accompany him back to St James, destined to remain with me, their splendours hidden behind the closed doors of a cupboard in Solomon’s Tower.
‘Fancy having your fortune told, Rose?’ And there was the booth: ‘“Seraphina, clairvoyant to the greatest in the land.” You couldn’t get a better recommendation than that.’
As we walked past, the beaded curtain raised a moment and I caught a glimpse of a large lady, with a very full head of intensely black hair, her eyes outlined in kohl.
‘Very exotic. Except that I would never believe a word of it. We make our own destinies, Vince.’
He shrugged. ‘Some of us do. But there are others… How did William Blake put it? “Some are born to sweet delight, some are born to endless night.”’
‘You may be right. But for most of us, I think life is a mixture of both.’
And I thought of how the loss of Danny, the waiting time that had become my own endless night.
As we were leaving the funfair breathless and exhausted, we were hailed by a familiar voice.
Inspector Jack Macmerry, resplendent in uniform.
Vince was delighted and rushed forward to warmly greet his old friend who he had once hoped would be his brother-in-law.
Jack indicated that he was just leaving and Vince said, ‘Been enjoying the sights, have you?’
Jack smiled vaguely and I realised that, far from such luxury, he was on duty, probably here in connection with his suspicions that the circus was involved in the recent rash of sudden deaths in Edinburgh.
His job done, and now having met us, Jack was in no hurry to depart. As the two men talked, some of the tinker bairns, who were indulging in a shrill and noisy game chasing each other, cannoned into me as they whirled past. I staggered, Jack yelled at them and grabbed me.
He put an arm around my waist and kept it there.
Vince looked on approvingly. I could see by his smug expression that he was hearing those elusive wedding bells once again.
It is one of my curious instincts that I can always feel eyes watching me intently or sense conversations, in which I am the topic under discussion, switch off hurriedly when I enter a room.
And there, within the radius of Jack’s arm still possessively around my shoulders, I turned sharply and saw that we were being closely observed by one of the clowns leaning against the entrance of the circus. And although he turned aside quickly, by his height I was sure it was Joey.
The incident went unnoticed by the two men deep in conversation, but it left me wondering if and when this particular clown ever removed his stage make-up. It seemed odd at midday when there was no circus performance.
Indeed, for the first time, I thought there was something decidedly sinister about this man calculated to arouse guffaws of merriment and delight.
And that was possibly the moment of truth for me, when a lot of things I had seen and heard no longer aimlessly floated at the back of my mind but loomed into steady focus.
At that instant, Joey the Clown, under whatever happened to be his real name, became my prime suspect.
A perfect disguise. I realised that a criminal could hide out most successfully under greasepaint, the equivalent of a mask worn each day. I was also aware that my suspicions should have been first aroused when I realised that this Joey was not the same King of the Clowns I had seen when the circus was last here in the spring.
I would have loved at that moment to share my discovery with Jack, but there was no hope of a mere woman interrupting an intense discussion as they caught up on two missing years and man-related topics, including golf and whisky.
Apart from Jack’s arm, from which I skilfully disentangled myself, my presence or absence would not have been noticed. But as we walked down the Pleasance and up St Mary’s Street to Princes Street, Vince insisted that this meeting was a call for celebration and that we should dine at his favourite Café Royal, while my thoughts were busy building up the case against Joey the Clown.
What was his real name? Had he a criminal background? Where had he come from before taking refuge and anonymity at the circus, and how many of the performers knew his real identity? Did they know he was a criminal and were they banded together, out of loyalty shielding him from the police?
To return to that first incident. The bank robbery and the murder of the clerk. Was that when my prime suspect sought refuge in the circus? I was certain, as was Jack, of a possible link with the so-called suicides of the two girls.
I remembered the neighbour who claimed a man had bumped into him that night rushing out of the tenement where the girls died and heading in the direction of the circus. A tall man. Had he killed them both by identical methods, merely through the accessibility of the ropes on the drying racks?
But there had to be a reason and that, of course, led me reluctantly to the Miles Rice household. Did the root lie there? Had the two maids who were friends found out something to their employer’s discredit?
The reason was almost always blackmail, from Jack’s vague hints about Felix’s finances. Was Joey a further connection, another blackmailer, the mysterious intruder who had come through the french doors that night and, when Felix Miles Rice refused his terms, viciously attacked him…?
There were a lot of ‘ifs’ but I felt sure there was a link somewhere and that I was going to find it.
We had almost reached Princes Street when Jack stopped and said, much as he would like to accompany us, duty called. He knew of old that lunches with Vince and at least one bottle of wine could wear away an entire afternoon and he had business to attend to.
Vince was genuinely sorry, but Jack was not to be persuaded. He promised, however, to look in and see us later.
I watched him go. Should I tell him of my suspicions? Reason said yes, share your discovery. But I cast aside reason: this was something I wanted to do on my own – unmask the killer. And that was my first and very costly mistake.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Café Royal was crowded and, as this had been a sudden decision, there was no time to book a table. It looked as if we would be turned away when Vince was hailed by a gentleman who seemed delighted to see him and, obviously aware of the situation, insisted that we share a table with his wife and himself.
This new acquaintance of my stepbrother’s was introduced as Mr Hengel, the owner of the circus. And Mr Hengel was something of a surprise, very different in appearance from the flamboyant ringmaster. The luxurious moustache he wore then was obviously false and the shining silk top hat effectively concealed a shiny bald head. He also seemed to have shrunk somewhat, perhaps the black high boots and riding trousers added an illusion of height.
A further surprise was Mrs Hengel, also known as the clairvoyant Seraphina. In her everyday clothes she also seemed diminished, despite the luxurious fur coat: plain of countenance, rather plump and certainly middle-aged, considerably older than the exotic lady hovering dramatically over the crystal bowl with the canary who picked out paper fortunes for a small sum.
Perhaps they both preferred to be incognito and hoped not to be recognised in their real-life roles.
The conversation was carefully hedged with the circus visit to Balmoral where it seemed Vince had been on hand in his physician capacity to deal with one of Mrs Hengel’s severe headaches, their mysterious cause an overindulgence in Seraphina’s activities, with too many eager clients anxious to know what the future held for them.
I gathered from the drift of the conversation that this odd state of affairs vaguely hinted that her clairvoya
nt personality as Seraphina was capable of taking her over and causing physical distress.
Whatever my feelings, I had to take into the equation of disbelief a deerhound who seemed to understand human minds and human motives, and who had a strange telepathic contact when I was in danger. Maybe Seraphina knew the answer to that as well.
However, I had more important matters in hand. This unexpected meeting with the Hengels suggested that I should put my mind towards diverting the conversation into a topic that might further my own, now urgent, investigation into the activities of the clowns, and of Joey in particular.
A small silence between soup and the main course provided the opportunity to say how much I enjoyed the clowns, how skilled they were and so forth.
My remarks were addressed to Mrs Hengel, a source of valuable information and, as it turned out, quite different from her Seraphina persona. She glanced occasionally at Vince and her husband sitting opposite, ignoring us both, engrossed in discussing the latest developments in medical research, which, I learnt later from Vince, was Mr Hengel’s particular obsession.
Mrs Hengel, however, seemed eager to seize the chance of a gossip with another female. ‘His great ambition was to have become a doctor, poor chap, but alas, it was out of the question, a dream only, for his impoverished family had neither the understanding nor the means to afford such a luxury, so he followed them into circus life.’
She asked where I lived and her eyes brightened. ‘Oh, that lovely old Tower. It intrigues me and I’ve often wondered who lived there. You are fortunate. It must be lovely inside,’ she added wistfully and I took the hint of a hoped-for invitation.
‘Oh, thank you, Mrs McQuinn. I would dearly love to visit you.’
‘Do you live at the circus?’ I asked.
She laughed. ‘Oh no, we do like our comfort and we are far too old for the rigours of a caravan, although Mr Hengel still likes to be as near the circus as possible in case of emergencies, you know. As a matter of fact, we are living close by, just off Dalkeith Road, in the Mayfield area. I expect you know it.’
‘I do indeed. I used to live in Sheridan Place.’
‘Really? Mr Wood, the gentleman who owns a very nice boarding house, obliges some of our lads with accommodation. Number 9, I think it is.’
‘And that is exactly where I was brought up. My mother died when I was quite young, so my sister and I stayed with our grandmother in Orkney, in Kirkwall, and came home for the holidays to be with Pappa—’
I was about to tell her about my illustrious father when she interrupted with an excited exclamation. ‘Kirkwall! Well, I never! What a coincidence.’ Her eyes lit up again. ‘What a small world it is indeed that we live in,’ and beaming at me, ‘my ma came from Orkney.’
She paused, then added in a whisper. ‘It is from her I have inherited my ability to tell the future; she had it and her grandmother too.’ A small shrug and she added warily, with a glance across the table at her husband, who seemed to have forgotten our existence and remained deep in conversation with Vince, ‘The story was that we came from the selkies,’ she murmured in tones of awe.
I smiled. ‘We have that family tradition. Seems very popular in Orkney to be related to the selkie folk.’
I wasn’t prepared to go into the details of my great-grandmother Sibella who I had met for the first time two years earlier. Past her hundredth birthday, with an intriguing background of mystery, her existence was a well-kept family secret, almost, one might say, a selkie in the cupboard.
Mrs Hengel said, ‘May I?’ And taking my hand, she turned it palm upwards. Her polite smile disappeared, her face changed and she looked worried, biting her lip.
What did she see there? But before I had a chance to question her, Mr Hengel leant across the table and asked, ‘Ready to go, my love?’
Although we had hardly exchanged more than a polite greeting, he said, ‘An unexpected pleasure to meet you, Mrs McQuinn.’
As he turned his attention to Vince again and an argument over who should pay the bill, Mrs Hengel stood up and smiled wryly, glanced at the two men. With almost an apology for their lack of attention to us during the meal, she said, ‘Mr Hengel thinks highly of Dr Laurie.’
Now I would never know what she had seen in my hand, as she went on, ‘My husband so loves reading books, mostly about strange illnesses – I can’t even pronounce their names,’ she laughed.
A waiter hovered. Vince was insisting that the bill was his, Hengel arguing not at all, that we were his guests.
Mrs Hengel sighed. ‘I am so sorry, Mrs McQuinn, I have so enjoyed our conversation,’ and in a whisper, ‘you have a very interesting lifeline.’
Although I was naturally curious, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by saying that I didn’t believe in such things. Maybe I had imagined that strange look, perhaps it was only concentration – or indigestion.
We were being ushered into our cloaks and I realised that I had eaten more than my normal spartan diet and drunk considerably more wine than I should to retain a clear head.
As we left, I declined to accompany the Hengels in a carriage back to Queen’s Park. At my side Vince announced that he must look into the hotel to see if there were any messages and asked if I would accompany him.
The answer was to take his arm as I was in desperate need of fresh air, and there was plenty of it waiting for us as we crossed the short distance over Princes Street.
Vince, holding on to me very firmly, announced that he intended to look into the hospital and have a look at Felix Miles Rice tomorrow.
In the hotel reception, there was a message awaiting him. I guessed the contents as he read it and groaned. ‘Sorry, Rose, this is going to be a short visit after all. The train will be leaving for London in a couple of hours. Dammit, I had hoped for a couple of days. No chance to see Miles Rice, either, as I promised your friend.’
To alleviate his disappointment I told him that it was unlikely he would have been allowed to ‘see’ the patient anyway.
‘I doubt if even your royal connection would have made the slightest difference as he is being kept under strict police surveillance until he regains consciousness – if ever.’
I followed him upstairs and took a seat by the bow window. Now I realised why he was tempted to stay in such a luxurious suite with its stunning views over the topography of Edinburgh, Salisbury Crags, and Arthur’s Seat. The view was dominated by the castle, the station far below, with its threads of smoke indicating trains travelling back and forth between the north of Scotland and the far south of England and, nearer at hand, the busy traffic of carriages rattling up and down over Waverley Bridge from Princes Street to the fashionable suburbs.
Meanwhile Vince packed his valise and speculated on the reasons for the police vigilance.
‘Either he will reveal all or they are expecting the killer to put in an appearance and finish him off.’
I agreed but said it was a bit hard on Elma being also excluded.
Vince shrugged. ‘I expect they have their reasons, not for us to reason why.’
I had decided to stay and see him off at the station, those last two hours becoming increasingly precious. It was one of those lovely rare autumn days when the weather forgets the calendar and indulges in a bout of frivolity, pretending that it is still summer, warm and calm.
With none of those ill-famed shrill east winds blowing up Waverley Steps, we strolled into Princes Street Gardens, enjoying a seat in the blissful sunshine which cleared my head of the overindulgent lunch, before returning to the hotel for a light refreshment. In my case, a much needed refreshing pot of tea while Vince indulged in a sandwich and ordered something considerably stronger to drink.
The clocks could not stop their relentless progress, all too soon the two hours were over and it was time for yet another parting, down in the lift to the station where the royal train purred beside an empty platform in readiness to leave for London.
‘Olivia and the children will be glad to see y
ou again,’ I said.
He smiled sadly. ‘I wish you were coming with me, Rose.’
Although I agreed, it was a bit of a lie. I had little desire to go down to England. Edinburgh was so complete: it had food and drink and all I needed. I loved my weird little tower, safe and secure with Thane to walk the hill by day and, like an ordinary domestic pet, have him lie at my fireside in the evening.
In truth I had little desire for travel these days. Perhaps it had been cleared out of my system by those years of Arizona, with Danny working for Pinkerton’s Detective Agency. No real home, only hazardous, enforced stays in pioneering shack towns with their squalor and their ever-attendant dangers. Gunfights in the streets and scenes of sudden death and violence every night as the bars closed and threw out their customers, mostly drunk cowhands.
Yes, that had been more than enough, I decided, for one lifetime.
As the train steamed out, I felt suddenly bereft, with so much still to tell Vince and not the least idea when we would meet again, at the mercy of another short stay of the royal train.
His last words had been: ‘That was a splendid lunch with the Hengels. An interesting couple and you ladies got along well, lots of girlish confidences, eh?’ He laughed.
I refrained from mentioning that, as we were receiving our cloaks, Mrs Hengel looked around sharply as if in danger of being overheard and, observing her husband and Vince at a little distance summoning a carriage, she had taken my hand and whispered, ‘May I come and see you tomorrow if that is convenient? It is very important.’
Mrs Hengel’s request sounded anxious, a note of urgency I was used to receiving from a prospective client. Could it be just curiosity about Solomon’s Tower or had she some domestic crisis that required the urgent services of a private detective?
If that was so, there was another mystery. How had she heard about me? Although I was becoming quite well known in Edinburgh, it seemed odd that my reputation had extended to a travelling circus.
Quest for a Killer Page 9
