Murders Most Foul

by Alanna Knight

  Troubled, he was becoming increasingly aware that he was getting precisely nowhere with this murder investigation in which Gosse seemed to have lost all interest, but would doubtless put in an appearance to claim he had solved it – eventually.

  As he prepared for bed, he solemnly regarded his still damp jacket, his mind going over the day’s events, the thought niggling away at the back of his mind that he had touched the first clue of any significance that led to the killer’s identity. Fighting off the desire to sleep, he picked up a pen, and as was his method with all cases, he drew out a sheet of paper, took out his notebook and went back to the beginning, trying to give substance to an idea built out of circumstances surrounding the killings.

  A few minutes later he sat back, yawned. A church clock nearby struck eleven; an early start called next morning at 6.30. It was useless. His mind refused to function, his eyelids grew heavy. He couldn’t fight off sleep any longer. It overwhelmed him, he knew when he was defeated. The vital clue remained a vague shadow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Next morning he awoke refreshed and knew he had to talk to someone. And the only person who could help him, who had the wisdom and experience of many years, was Brandon Macfie. If there were no urgent reports awaiting his attention at the Central Office he would call on his old friend at Nicholson Square.

  At ten o’clock, he rang the bell. Macfie opened the door and smiled. ‘My dear lad, what a pleasant surprise. Come in, come in.’ And as Faro followed him into the kitchen Macfie said: ‘You were lucky to catch me at home, I’m off to Newcastle for a couple of days, giving a talk about the differences between English and Scots’ law.’

  ‘In that case, sir, I will not detain you.’

  But observing Faro’s anxious expression and the early hour for such a visit, Macfie realised the matter must be serious and immediately said: ‘I have a couple of hours until my train. Do sit down.’

  As Faro sat at the table, Macfie’s housekeeper appeared as if by magic and put down coffee and bannocks. Smiling, Macfie thanked her and looking across at Faro, he said:

  ‘Problems, lad? Personal or is it the murder investigation?’

  Faro shook his head. ‘The latter – my personal problems do not deserve intruding on you at this hour of the day.’

  Macfie poured the coffee, sat back in his chair. ‘Go ahead, I’m listening.’

  ‘Truth is, sir, we … or rather I am getting nowhere with this investigation. I am in a complete muddle, things that don’t seem to fit in anywhere, like the nine of diamonds—’

  Macfie held up his hand. ‘Let’s have it, then. Right from the beginning, that first murder in Fleshers Close, if you please.’

  ‘Gosse and I were called out. He presumed the dead woman was a prostitute since she was wearing a red gown. But the condition of her body, the presence of the small girl hovering about, suggested something else to me. I recalled seeing a woman similarly attired leaving the theatre after a performance and a young drunken fellow attempting to drag her into his carriage.’

  Faro paused there; he was not ready to impart his suspicions of Paul who he had recognised as the drunk in a subsequent visit to Lumbleigh Green concerning the murder of the maid Ida.

  ‘My theory that the dead woman was possibly an actress proved correct. Enquiries at the theatre here led to Glasgow and I learnt that her name was Doris Page and that her husband, who had been searching for her, had just arrived in Edinburgh. For Gosse, Page was an immediate suspect. However, he had a perfect alibi – he was in a Glasgow jail after a fight on the night Doris was killed.’

  ‘You told me earlier about the playing card, the nine of diamonds, found under her body,’ Macfie interrupted.

  ‘There was no explanation for that, or for its appearance at all three of the subsequent incidents.’

  Macfie nodded. ‘We’ll get back to that. Carry on.’

  ‘The second attack was on Jock Webb, the ex-boxer, also in the Newington area, quite near where Doris Page was found. Webb described a tall, strong man, face hidden, who he fought off. But his injuries were enough to put him in hospital temporarily. I was present when his clothes were restored to him and in his jacket pocket, the nine of diamonds—’

  ‘Ah,’ Macfie interrupted. ‘That’s significant.’

  Faro shook his head. ‘Webb claims that he doesn’t gamble and denied all knowledge of how it got there. However, he was unable to produce any convincing alibi for the time of the murder of Doris Page and as far as Gosse is concerned, he is ready to arrest him on suspicion.’

  Macfie nodded. ‘A prime – and so far, the only – suspect, who claimed to be attacked; although his injuries were quite superficial, this seems the perfect alibi. However, it is not unknown in police records, where malefactors have used self-inflicted injuries to substantiate an alibi. Please continue.’

  ‘The latest alarm was when Ida Watts, a maid at Lumbleigh Green, failed to put in an appearance.’

  Macfie refilled their coffee, and inviting Faro to another bannock smiled wryly. ‘A procedure all too frequent, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That was to be the general assumption except that her mother arrived at the house in a great panic. Her daughter was devoted, never let her parents down and this had been her birthday party. Convinced that there was something amiss, Mrs Laurie went to the police office and reported the girl as a missing person.’

  ‘Very laudable,’ Macfie put in. ‘So what had happened to her?’

  ‘We were soon to find out, sir. A suicide was reported to us, off North Bridge, and it turned out to be the missing Ida. At least, suicide was presumed – medical evidence was that she had been strangled first and then thrown off the bridge.’

  ‘Strangulation – like the woman in Fleshers Close,’ said Macfie. ‘Does this indicate that we have a serial killer on the loose?’

  ‘Perhaps so, as you suggested at our last meeting. That would seem to be the general opinion, but in Ida’s case there is more to come.’

  ‘Proceed.’

  ‘My friend Lizzie, who as you know is Mrs Lumbleigh’s personal maid, told me that Ida, who had never confided in her before, was very excited that Friday. Said she was eloping, that she might be pregnant by her secret lover, a wealthy young man who had promised to marry her.’

  ‘A valid reason for this wealthy young lover wishing to dispose of her. That is not unknown either.’

  ‘Except in this case, the post-mortem produced no evidence of pregnancy. And in common with Doris Page and the attack on Jock Webb, the nine of diamonds in her reticule was found by the constable.’

  A clock struck the hour and Faro was aware that his friend had a train to catch. ‘There is a little more, sir.’

  Macfie smiled. ‘Plenty of time, lad. There are always other trains.’

  ‘Ida was Catholic and the young priest who conducted her funeral service was very emotional. I decided to talk to him as I had been told that she was at confession shortly before her death. I wanted to know the name of this secret lover, but if the priest knew it, he took refuge in the sacred ritual of the confessional.’

  Faro shook his head. ‘He was adamant and could not be persuaded. That he might be protecting a killer seeking other victims was of no avail.’ He paused. ‘And now the latest, which you may have read in the newspapers. The priest has gone missing, and fearing some disaster while about his parochial duties, a search has been underway on Arthur’s Seat.’

  Again he paused. ‘I am certain there is a link with Ida’s murder. Is he a victim? Is he already dead because Ida told him her lover’s name?’

  Macfie thought for a moment. ‘The other alternative is doubtful as we discussed earlier. But I put it to you anyway. Could this young priest have been her lover and feared exposure?’

  ‘I have thought of that too, but the playing card does not fit in.’

  ‘Unless the priest is a madman who killed both women,’ Macfie put in grimly.

  ‘Having met him, sir, I can’t
believe that.’

  Macfie smiled wryly. ‘Mad priests have also been known. Think of Rasputin. But I take your point.’ He sighed. ‘It’s the presence of this playing card that is the most baffling ingredient. Who and why?’

  ‘There is one final incident, sir. Mrs Mavis Rayne has been attacked outside her house in York Square.’

  Macfie beamed. ‘Mavis Rayne, the notorious perfumer. Well, well, I could tell you many tales about her famous establishment. But please continue.’

  ‘She believed that rape was intended. Her screams and struggles attracted a constable who blew his whistle and raced to the spot.’

  ‘Saving her virtue, no doubt,’ said Macfie who, Faro suspected, was enjoying this piece of local drama.

  ‘The constable duly reported the attack. Gosse sent me to interview her. She couldn’t see her attacker’s face clearly since he was behind her, an arm about her neck, but she said he was tall and strong and she had learnt about dealing with prospective rapists in her time.’

  Macfie chortled. ‘I am sure she was speaking the truth about that.’

  ‘The constable who came to her rescue, not to be deterred, dashed off in pursuit and picked up her reticule which had been dropped, presuming it to be the reason for the attack. Mrs Rayne explained that it was new, the contents were intact, nothing stolen. Except there was one addition to its contents.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Macfie. ‘That card again?’

  ‘Yes, it wasn’t hers, she doesn’t play cards and she threw it in the fire. When I asked for more details, she said it was either hearts or diamonds—’

  He hadn’t got to the point of it yet, the visit to Webb yesterday. There was still so much to say as Macfie sighed and consulted his timepiece. ‘I really have to go, lad. Care to walk me to the railway station?’

  A final word to the housekeeper and they set off over South Bridge and down towards Waverley Station.

  Walking on the pavement, avoiding other passers-by with the noise of carriages and horses clattering alongside over the cobbled road, made carrying on a conversation almost impossible. From under the North Bridge, the hiss of steam rose from waiting trains.

  Macfie said: ‘Come and see me when I get back. I hope you make some progress. You know what is missing from all this and what you must find.’ Without waiting for Faro’s reply he repeated emphatically: ‘A motive, lad. Every murder must have a motive and so far that is missing. Find it and it will lead you to your killer.’

  Down the Waverley steps and Macfie bought his ticket. The train was leaving in three minutes. Faro followed him on to the platform where he got into a carriage, pulled down the window.

  ‘You might begin by having a closer look at Lumbleigh Green. And good luck!’

  As the train gathered steam and began to move off, Macfie leant out to wave to Faro standing on the platform. This fine young man, who was so like Sandy, his own lad. They would have been the same age, and Sandy had wanted to be a policeman. He closed the window and sighed. Jeremy Faro had become increasingly important in his life, taking over the role of the son he had lost.

  In the Central Office, the inspector’s chair was empty. Faro sighed with relief, for once escaping the sergeant’s taunts at his inability to solve two murders and produce a killer like a rabbit out of the magician’s hat.

  At the reception desk, the constable shook his head. DS Gosse had mentioned that he was away ‘down East Lothian way’ and would not be back until late afternoon. Reassured that he was free of Gosse’s imminent arrival, Faro took the opportunity to sit down, take out his notebook and, recalling the precise details of his recent conversation with Macfie, he picked up the pen and wrote:

  Suspects.

  1. Jock Webb (according to Gosse).

  Faro frowned. He knew the sergeant’s methods and his reputation by now, determined that the most obvious and most accessible from his point of view was also the most likely.

  1. Jock Webb, ex-boxer, elderly but in good condition, ‘tall and strong’ could fit the killer’s description. His alibis might be conveniently verified by his lady friend Annie with whom he is living at the moment.

  2. Paul Lumbleigh. A medical student who would know how to strangle the two women victims.

  A more likely suspect, not passed on to his sergeant for obvious reasons regarding his claim to remote kinship. If Gosse dashed off with a warrant, this might have disastrous consequences, not only for those intimately concerned but also for Lizzie whose future hung on a thread after the furore caused by what Archie Lumbleigh termed her ‘interference’ in connection with Ida’s murder.

  Had the actress Doris Page been accosted by Paul Lumbeigh outside the theatre, and in an unexpected struggle to keep her silent he had strangled her, thrown her out of the carriage in the insalubrious, notorious area of Fleshers Close in the High Street? A neighbour had heard a carriage in the early hours.

  Paul fitted Ida’s description of her handsome, wealthy young lover, as well as the tall, strong, cloaked man, Jock Webb’s attacker and Mavis Rayne’s potential rapist in York Square.

  Faro put down his pen with an exasperated sigh. All this he realised was purely circumstantial, unless Paul’s presence at all places at the times of the murders and attacks could be verified.

  The main question remained. Why and what was the motive common to all these incidents and what was the significance of the playing card, the nine of diamonds?

  Regarding Doris Page, drunk and attempting to stop the woman’s screams, the verdict could well be accidental murder, or manslaughter, but no such excuse could be used by Ida’s secret lover, or as the reason for the priest’s disappearance.

  Faro was now almost certain that Fr Burren had been abducted and murdered. If and when his dead body was found, the motive was almost certainly that Ida had given him the name of her secret love in confession.

  Except for the playing card the attacks on Webb and Mrs Rayne, and the murders of Doris Page and Ida Watts, could be unrelated.

  He thought again about Mavis Rayne. And if circumstantial evidence pointed in the direction of Paul Lumbleigh, what was his reason for lurking about a basement entrance in York Square that particular evening? True, the perfumer’s establishment was also a high-class brothel but why spring out and attack the madam? Did she know something to his discredit, or something that concerned the two murders – or had he mistaken her for someone else?

  In fact, did Paul have a motive – or was he just insane?

  And that would account for the nine of diamonds, the curse of Scotland left by the killer. Was this another link with Paul? Not only was he in disgrace with his stepfather who had to pay his gambling debts, but he had also shown by popular demand (from Vince) at Lizzie’s birthday party several of his tricks, including the notorious ‘pick any card’ which so baffled onlookers but the secret of which, as Vince demonstrated to his mother later, was that all the cards were of the same denomination.

  Later, when Faro went to bed, he felt too wide awake to fall asleep, but just as he was dropping off at last there came to him a picture of Mrs Biggs and his jacket drying over the fire, of Mavis Rayne and her poodle’s wet wool. The missing priest. Heavy rain – his rescue by Clara’s carriage – Jock Webb’s cape …

  He had it – the answer! He sat up.

  But too late, he had to let it go; this fleeting shadow of a nightmare was too far-fetched to have any credibility.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ‘Laurie – Laurie, wake up! For heaven’s sake – please!’

  Lizzie sat up, confused, wondering if this was a dream. Dawn streaked the sky and Clara stood over her, trembling.

  ‘What is it, madam, what is wrong?’

  Clara sat down on the bed and put her hands over her face. ‘Oh dear God, Laurie. He is here! Here!’ she sobbed.

  ‘Who, madam, who are you talking about?’

  ‘My stepfather, Bodvale.’ Clara sat up. ‘He came to my bedroom, just minutes ago.’

  Lizzie got out of
bed, calmly threw a shawl over her mistress’s shoulders, shivering in her thin nightgown. She had dealt with this situation before …

  ‘Come along, madam. You’ll catch cold, let me get you back to bed. You’ve had another of your horrible nightmares—’

  ‘Nightmare! This was no nightmare, Laurie. This was real. He tried to make me go with him. When I said no, he said he would … would kill me …’ The rest was inarticulate as she sobbed. ‘Please help me, Laurie.’

  Lizzie looked at her, shivering, clearly terrified. What could she do? She put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Let’s go to your room, madam. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  She ushered Clara back to her bedroom, eased her into her bed and prepared to go down into the kitchen.

  ‘No, no, don’t leave me,’ Clara cried. ‘He might come back.’ She stared across at the window. ‘He could be lurking about outside.’ She took Lizzie’s arm. ‘Promise me you won’t leave me – promise.’

  Lizzie was prepared to humour her, convinced that this had been yet another of her mistress’s nightmares. She sat down, taking her cold hand in hers. The usual procedure was to stay with her until she fell asleep again.

  ‘Close your eyes, madam,’ she said gently. ‘You’re quite safe—’

  ‘Safe!’ Clara almost shrieked. ‘I thought I was safe. That was my dream for the past few years. Now I know I will never be safe. I will never be safe again.’

  ‘Madam, believe me, it was all just a horrible dream.’

  Clara sat up in bed, rolled up the sleeves of her nightgown. ‘Dream, was it? If you don’t believe me, look at the marks on my arms – and my throat too.’

  And there in the lamplight there were indeed red blotches; bruises on both her arms were clearly visible.

  ‘I was fast asleep. Suddenly I was awake, someone had turned up the lamp. I thought it was my husband paying me a rare midnight visit. Then I heard Bodvale’s voice in my ear, calling my name.