‘Do you live nearby?’ Vince was asked again. ‘Will that not be difficult?’
Vince thought of his mother and his heart failed him. ‘See down there.’ He pointed vaguely towards the cottage, smoke issuing from its chimney.
‘I live with my parents. But my mother is often out or too busy to notice things.’
The man looked pleased. ‘Your father?’
‘Oh, he’s out working all day.’ Vince decided he’d be tactful and not mention that his stepfather was a policeman.
The sun had almost set. It would be dark soon. The old stables were a good idea. A convenient place to hide and not too far from the cottage. ‘If you wait a while till it’s dark, you should be able to get across there without being seen. After we’ve had supper, I’ll bring you some food. You can have Coll’s stick to lean on. Here,’ he added, handing it over. ‘I always keep a stick when we’re out here. You never know when you might need it on the hill. There are a lot of secret caves, you know, and a lot of wild creatures still.’ He always hoped as well as feared that he might meet a wolf, although he was assured the last of them had gone some years ago.
The gypsy smiled. ‘And you won’t tell your parents? You promised, remember.’
‘I remember.’
‘Good.’ He held out his hand and Vince helped him to his feet. With a groan he leant on the stick. ‘Thank you for that, lad. My name’s Charlie, by the way.’
‘I’m Vince.’ Shaking Charlie’s hand, it wasn’t rough like a workman’s. He leant down and ruffled Vince’s hair. ‘Good lad, Vince.’ He added thoughtfully, ‘You remind me of someone I used to know long ago. All those golden curls wasted on a lad.’
Vince winced. Those golden curls were the bane of his life, the subject of some teasing among his schoolmates, until they learnt that he had strong fists and was good at using them. That, as well as the fact that he was small for his age. No matter how his mother tried to console him, he knew he would never be tall, as his soldier father had been, or over six foot like Stepfather, who he thought was the best-looking man he had ever seen, even more handsome than his late father had been, by all accounts from his mother. He regretted he had never seen a photograph of him; maybe they were not so fashionable when he went to war, but it would have been such a treasure to keep all his life. To say to people: ‘This is my soldier father.’
At supper that evening, Lizzie was pleasantly surprised at Vince asking for second helpings. She always worried that he didn’t eat enough and tonight he even jumped up to clear the table and said he’d wash the dishes. Ma could put her feet up for a change and he would take Coll for a last evening walk, usually Stepfather’s task.
Hearing him in the kitchen, calling to Coll, Lizzie shouted. ‘Be careful in the dark, Vince.’
‘I won’t be long, Ma.’ As the door closed, Lizzie turned to Faro and said: ‘Well, what do you think of that?’
‘A pleasant change,’ was the reply.
‘And so thoughtful, Jeremy. Did you see what he ate, too?’
Faro smiled. ‘It was a very nice roast chicken, dear.’
Lizzie smiled. ‘Yes, but he ate as much as you tonight.’ Sighing, she shook her head. ‘Anyway, it’s a great relief. Looks as if all our fears were nothing and all will be well with him from now on.’
Faro touched her hand. ‘I told you it was probably just his age.’
She smiled. ‘And you were right, as always, dear.’
Before they retired, Lizzie remembered the three blankets she had put on to the line outside for airing. There were only two. She looked around. Had the missing one fallen from its pegs? No, it had definitely disappeared.
‘Someone’s stolen one of our blankets,’ she told Faro who was preparing for bed. ‘It’ll be those gypsies again,’ she added indignantly. ‘It’s time your lot did something about them, thieving like that. Some of the women were around the other day telling fortunes and selling clothes pegs.’
And working out the lie of the land, thought Faro, while assuring her there wasn’t much the police could do unless they were caught red-handed.
If, however, that night they had had access to a crystal ball from one of those fortune-tellers, they would have seen a very dark picture ahead.
Their troubles, and in particular, Lizzie’s had just begun.
CHAPTER NINE
When Faro reached the Central Office next morning, it was to find Gosse and everyone around him in a high state of excitement. There had been an assault and robbery in Fleshmarket Close in the early hours. The victim, an elderly man named Price, had been brought to the infirmary. Fortunately his injuries were not fatal and, furious, he was only too eager to tell the police all about the attack and Gosse was only too delighted to hear that the assailant answered to the missing McLaw’s description.
Price’s yells for help had alerted the beat policeman, PC Bain, who had given chase, again somewhat half-heartedly, he had to admit, as a quick glimpse of the running man fitted the description of the killer McLaw, and like the first time, Bain was unarmed apart from his whistle and his truncheon – not much use in apprehending a dangerous criminal.
Nevertheless he had set off in pursuit, but being portly and middle-aged was just in time to see the suspect leaping aboard the Glasgow train as it gathered steam and moved out.
‘We’ve telegraphed Glasgow station and they will hold him there. We’ll get him this time and I am going personally to see he doesn’t escape us again,’ said Gosse triumphantly.
Faro nodded with the uneasy certainty that once more Gosse was counting his pre-hatched chickens. The wily McLaw had disappeared before and the chances were that he would do so again. They would be too late. If they missed him in Glasgow he would be heading for the Highlands, and once protected by the familiar tracks he knew so well in those wild mountains and glens, they would have even less chance of tracking him down.
‘You go to the infirmary, Faro, get a statement from Mr Price – he was badly shaken had some cuts and bruises – see if he has recovered enough to sign a statement.’ Gosse sighed happily. ‘All cut and dried, Faro, we have definitely got him this time.’
One of the constables came in with the information that the police waiting at Glasgow station were holding the passenger answering McLaw’s description.
‘They’re quite sure it is him?’ asked Gosse.
‘Yes, sir. They searched him, and what is more he still has the wallet and stolen money on him.’
Bain was lingering, awaiting instructions. He started on a long-winded apology for his fruitless chase but Gosse cut him short:
‘Let’s not waste any more time. You come with us. We’ll need you to identify him.’ And to Faro: ‘You go and get that statement. Be here with it when we get back.’
At the infirmary, Faro was met by consternation. Mr Price was no longer there. He had insisted that he was well enough to go home and would not take no for an answer. Said he was an old soldier and that these cuts and bruises were nothing to what he had suffered serving Her Majesty in his young day, etc. etc.
The nurse shook her head. ‘We couldn’t do anything, sir. We could hardly tie him up to make him wait for the police to come and interview him.’
Faro sighed, got his address and realised he must go to Kirk Liberton. A fortuitous coincidence; since he was in the area he would also take the chance of saving a second journey, killing the proverbial two birds with one stone and fulfilling his promise to Mrs Brook by calling at Celia Simms’ address. From all accounts, the maid Tibbie would still be there and talking to her might throw some light on the other mystery that bothered him, Agatha’s empty coffin.
As he climbed the hill to Liberton, Faro stopped occasionally to admire the fine vista of Edinburgh, from Arthur’s Seat to the castle. His destination was one of the attractive old villages which had been incorporated into the city. An ancient settlement up a steep hill accessible from the old drover’s road to Dalkeith, it was dominated by a handsome church with origins dating back to a ninth
-century Celtic church and a later chapel granted by David I in the Great Charter of Holyrood signed in 1143.
Price’s house was typical of the old-style Scottish mansion, with less frivolity and pseudo battlements than were now fashionable in the city. A uniformed maid opened the door, followed by a sharp-faced, elderly woman who he gathered was Mrs Price.
Introduction made and object stated – a business matter – thankful that he was not in uniform, Faro was ushered into a small room, a book-lined study where Price sat in a chair by the window, his head bandaged. He turned round; a red face and heavy white moustache gave him the air of a military man.
‘Someone to see you,’ was his wife’s comment as she lingered anxiously, regarded by her husband whose brusque gesture clearly indicated that her presence was not required.
Price indicated the chair opposite and Faro sat down, took out his notebook. He had a feeling this was not going to be an easy interview as Price blustered in answer to his first question: Why had he left the infirmary without further examination?
‘A lot of nonsense, of course it was a shock. I was taken quite unawares. I was taking the quick route down to the station by Fleshmarket Close. It was still dark and I had been visiting – friends on Castle Hill. A convivial evening, wining and dining, no hiring cabs in sight. Realised I might get one at the station to bring me home. It was then this young man sprang out at me, knocked me down and took my wallet and my money. I yelled for help, although that seemed unlikely, and I gave chase. But I’m not very fleet these days, I tripped – and that is how I got all this.’ He stopped and pointed to his bandaged head.
As Faro handed him the statement with murmured sympathy, he was wondering why Price had seemed so ill at ease with his wife’s presence, which seemed to be caused not through pain but whatever else was troubling him. Their conversation had been carried on not much above a whisper, with Price darting sharp looks towards the door, as if he feared his wife might return and intervene.
‘Of course I’ll sign it,’ he said, going over to his desk and, seizing a pen, he scribbled a signature. Waiting for the ink to dry, he handed it back. ‘There you are,’ he sounded relieved. ‘And I’ll thank you to recover my ten pounds, a large sum to lose, you will agree.’
Pocketing Price’s statement and after a final question regarding his attacker, there seemed little more helpful information forthcoming. In retrospect, the long haul Gosse had sent him on all the way to Liberton was yet another job that could have been completed by a constable, except that it went along with the inspector’s delight in bequeathing his sergeant tasks that were beneath him, a satisfying method of keeping him in his place. Especially now, when Gosse was basking in the glory of achievement, returning from Glasgow and locking McLaw in the condemned cell to await the hangman’s rope.
About to leave Mr Price, Faro remarked, ‘I see you had only a vague description of your attacker.’
‘That was all I got. The light was poor, but as I’ve stated already, he was tall, youngish and bearded, wearing a long overcoat and keeping the lower part of his face hidden by a muffler.’
It all fitted McLaw perfectly. Heading for the railway station, it suggested that he had been lying in wait, hoping that someone would come down the steep stairs so that he could get money for his fare. Why was Price so evasive about his own movements at that hour of the morning?
Faro said tactfully, ‘It was rather late to be walking down the steep steps of Fleshmarket Close in the early hours. As you know, it has a bad reputation at the best of times. Didn’t you consider that it might be dangerous, going down there in the dark alone?’
Price received this question with a resentful look, but obviously felt that more had to be said to justify his actions.
‘As I told you, I was taking the short cut to the station, hoping to pick up a hiring cab. I am a retired lawyer,’ he said. ‘Visiting friends at the club and we had rather a lot to drink.’
Faro smiled. ‘Happens to us all at some time. Could the club not have got you a hiring cab?’
‘Not at four in the morning.’ Price cleared his throat before adding: ‘I trust you will be treating this as confidential. I do not wish it to go any further, or that any of my … er, friends might be involved. That would be quite deplorable and my wife would be very upset at such publicity, should it find its way into the newspapers.’
‘I am sure that will not be necessary, since there was no one except yourself involved.’
Price gave an audible sigh of relief. So that’s what had been troubling him, and suddenly Faro had a very clear picture of the reason for his reticence. This respectably married, retired gentleman had not been drinking with his old chums but had in fact been to one of the high-class brothels, sometimes disguised as gentlemen’s clubs, which were rife in the Lawnmarket district. That also accounted for the lateness of the hour and the fact that he had decided against getting one of the hiring cabs in that area.
Thanking Price, who seemed anxious to close the door on him as speedily as possible, especially as Mrs Price, no doubt overcome by curiosity, might make an appearance in the hall, Faro said:
‘I am to call at a house called The Elms. Can you direct me?’
‘The Simms’ place? Just across the road and round the corner.’ Price paused to sigh, perhaps awaiting further information for Faro’s visit. ‘We were all very sad to hear of Miss Celia’s tragic death.’
‘Did you know the lady?’
Price chuckled, in an almost light-hearted way, for the first time. ‘Strange you should ask that. I courted her for years, that was before I met my wife,’ he added hastily, ‘but she wouldn’t have me. According to rumour, the only man she ever wanted went off with her sister and she never forgave either of them. Apparently that was enough to finish her with men, decided we were all alike so she shut herself up in that house, her family home.’ He shook his head. ‘Some of us tried to get her back into the social round, but no, she just got odder and odder as the years went by. Just herself and that lame lass, an orphan she more or less adopted from the poorhouse, the two of them rattling about in that great house with its wilderness of a garden. The neighbours complained about weeds and overgrowing trees spreading. We’re very proud of our gardens. She couldn’t manage it alone, so there’s a man in from time to time managing to keep the weeds at bay and the garden looking tidy.’
Pausing, he regarded Faro curiously. ‘Tibbie Shiels, the maid – she hasn’t done something wrong, has she?’
‘Not as far as I know, sir. I’m merely enquiring for the housekeeper of a friend of mine. She thought Tibbie might be needing a new home and she needs a new maid.’
As the words fell out so slickly, Faro decided he was getting quite good at the glib lies, which, when required, now came to him quite spontaneously.
Price said: ‘Excellent idea. The lass hasn’t anyone now, and Miss Celia dying unexpectedly like that – I doubt whether she had made a will. Wouldn’t have a thing to do with lawyers, although my old firm had handled all the Simms’ family affairs for generations.’
Faro decided it might be useful to have the lawyers’ name, which was willingly provided with assurances regarding their competence and reliability.
Thanking him, he went down the street, turned the corner as directed and was outside the Simms’ residence. A squat, ivy-covered, ugly house, antique only in the number of years since it was built. Rusting gates and an overgrown garden added a look of sorrowful neglect, which fitted the pattern of the woman who had lived there, an old, unhappy recluse.
Approaching the front door, he thought what a wasted life. Here she had lived for the past twenty years, her days eaten away with bitterness and resentment, keeping up the fuel of hatred against her sister. Fate had gone against Agatha; left her widowed, childless and destitute, and finally forced into spending her remaining years in the poorhouse. By forgiving her, Celia could have buried the past and the two of them could have lived in this huge house together, consoling eac
h other that it was the man who courted one sister and married the other who was the real villain of their wasted years. And perhaps, Faro thought sadly, the tragedy of Celia’s own shocking death would never have happened.
A sad story indeed.
CHAPTER TEN
As he waited on the doorstep, the bell echoed old and rusty through the house. There was no answer so he rang again and waited. Again, nothing as the sound faded into the emptiness beyond.
There was no one at home. Sighing, he realised he would have to make the journey again, so he scribbled a note that he was a friend of Mrs Brook who was anxious for news of her. Would she please call at Sheridan Place at the earliest.
It was all he could do and as he was walking back to the gate, a young man pushing a wheelbarrow appeared round the side of the house. Muddy boots and grimy hands declared him as the gardener.
‘So it was you making that awful racket, ringing the bell. There’s no one at home,’ he added huffily, stating the obvious.
‘I wished to see Tibbie. When will she be returning?’
The man shook his head. ‘Dunno. You’re too late.’
‘She is still living here?’
The man shrugged. ‘Dunno. She was. But just yesterday she went off with a man in a carriage.’
‘Did you know him?’
The man stared at him as if this was a ridiculous question. ‘Of course not. Never seen him before. Not from these parts. A stranger, but it was a mighty smart carriage,’ he added encouragingly. ‘And he was a gentleman.’
‘Did she know him?’ Faro persisted.
‘How would I know that? I hardly know her. Just did this job as a favour to the old lady.’ Frowning, he added as an afterthought: ‘Mind you, Tibbie didn’t seem all that keen on getting into the carriage. He was arguing with her.’ He shrugged. ‘Seemed a bit upset.’
The gardener didn’t strike him as particularly observant, and Faro did not care for the sound of that. ‘You mean, she was going against her will. Did she have any luggage?’
Akin to Murder Page 6
