Faro felt annoyance return, the distaste for anything connected with Constable McQuinn, who had taken over the Hymes case when Faro took ill and there was no other senior officer available. Now he felt as if being ill had played into Constable McQuinn's hands and a little responsibility had increased his bumptiousness and made him more know-all than ever.
Faro grunted and Vince smiled. "You don't like the amiable constable much, do you?"
"No. He smiles too much and too often. Even when he's talking about a sudden death, you'd think he was laughing at a secret joke. And I get a nasty feeling that it's not so much my health as my job he's after. And he should have found that photograph of Timothy Ferris, too, in the final routine search of Lily Goldie's room. It was evidence, after all."
"You're not going to complain about that, I hope," said Vince anxiously.
"I'm not—but I'd be within my rights."
"Come, Stepfather, you're being too hard on him." Vince smiled. "Don't worry. He's got a long way to go before he's had enough experience to be a threat to the job of detective inspector. Can't be much older than I am."
Ignoring this plea to be reasonable, Faro decided that the photograph of Ferris presented an irresistible opportunity of putting the unctuous young policeman in his place.
Next morning he found Constable McQuinn sitting at his desk, smiling and whistling to himself, in a manner that suggested life was being very good to him. He yawned and shook his shoulders with a grin. Was he reliving the night's conquests, the unsuspecting serving girls and shop assistants who seemed to be his prey?
And approaching his desk, Faro wondered if he was seeing in the handsome young constable the youth he had never been. Was envy the root-cause of his irritation whenever he met McQuinn off-duty in Princes Street Gardens or listening to the band in the park, strutting like a pouter pigeon with a different giggling young female on his arm?
At Faro's approach, he stood up, straightened his tunic and saluted his superior officer politely. "A pleasure to have you back with us. Inspector. I trust you are fully restored to health again-"
"Never mind about that," interrupted Faro ungraciously, and held out the photograph, carefully concealing the inscription. "Have you ever seen this before?"
McQuinn looked thoughtful. "Can't say as how I have, Inspector. Should I have seen it?" he added, smiling gently.
"Since it was discovered by one of the nuns in Lily Goldie's room, of which you were supposed to have conducted a thorough search, one would, in the normal way, have expected it to be produced along with any other evidence," said Faro heavily, his temper rising.
McQuinn, refusing to be ruffled, held out his hand. "May I?"
"Well, do you know who it is?"
McQuinn's smile was condescending to the point of insolence. "Of course I know who it is. Everyone knows who that is, Inspector."
"Then perhaps you'll oblige me—"
"It's Timothy Ferris, a suitor of Lily's."
"Is that so? Then why wasn't this information produced in your report?" barked Faro, ashamed to hear echoes in his own voice of the bullying manner he so despised in Superintendent McIntosh.
McQuinn sighed wearily. "Inspector sir, seeing that the unfortunate young gentleman had committed suicide two weeks before Lily was murdered, even if we had found his photograph, such information would not have lent any relevance to the case."
Looking at his superior officer's angry face, he continued, "If you're in any doubt, all the details relating to Ferris's death are on file. Would you like me to fetch them out?"
"No, no."
McQuinn nodded. "May I suggest that you talk to your stepson? Ferris was in his year at medical school. Vince probably knows a great deal about his activities—by personal contact or hearsay from their fellow-students—''
Faro cut him short. "Yes, yes." And, somewhat angrily, he went over to the cupboard, unlocked it and, taking out the file on Lily Goldie, he threw in Ferris's photograph.
McQuinn watched him. "So the case of Lily Goldie is finally closed, Inspector." He sounded relieved.
"Is it? I wonder, McQuinn, I wonder." And with that enigmatic reply Faro stalked out of the office and slammed the door behind him, harder than was completely necessary. In the corridor he stopped. Was that McQuinn's suppressed laughter he heard following him, or was it only his over-sensitive imagination?
Chapter 3
The case of Hymes and the Gruesome Convent Murders was forgotten as an uncommonly hot dry spell of weather brought a spate of stomach upsets. There were people who complained that the weather was to blame, and mark their words there would be an outbreak of typhus if it continued. The same folk belonged to the order of gloomy prophets who foretold that every winter chill would also carry off half the population to the kirkyard.
No rain came, the skies remained obstinately blue and cloudless as handkerchiefs were pressed to noses by those forced to encounter the noxious odours emanating from narrow crowded city streets. An Edinburgh without rain was a phenomenon, especially as the mired stinking cobblestones relied upon frequent and heavy showers as Nature's way of keeping them fresh and clean.
Meanwhile, in Faro's garden, the lilacs had their day, to be replaced by an abundance of June roses. He could not fail to notice that their perfume competed with a distinct smell of faulty drains. He also observed, with considerable delight, a great deal of domestic activity in his back garden, where blackbirds and thrushes had nested, the proud male parent easing the wearisome egg incubation of a mate with a dawn and eventide song of joyous exultation.
Faro had little time to enjoy this novelty of his new home, happily distant from the city, for he was once again involved in the sordid crimes that lay behind the façade of city life. Thefts, embezzlements, sexual assaults, child prostitution—such were mere scrapings on the surface which respectable, prosperous middle-class Edinburgh was at pains to present to the world. Deaths there were too, in drunken fights and street accidents, but none that bore any resemblance to the murders of Lily Goldie or Sarah Hymes.
At the end of a long day on a routine smuggling case at Leith Docks, Faro decided that, compared with the gruesome details of murder cases, there was something almost wholesome about cheating the revenue. Returning to the city, he saw that the radiant summer had temporarily disappeared in swirling mists which hid Arthur's Seat entirely and blotted out the Pentland Hills, but he felt strangely content as the omnibus set him down at the end of his street.
Glad to be returning home, he put his latchkey in the door and found Mrs. Brook eagerly awaiting his arrival in order to announce a visitor.
"A lady to see you. I put her in the drawing-room. Said it was urgent, poor soul. I just couldn't turn her away."
Faro swore silently, his elation suddenly abated. Tonight, for the first time since illness had deprived him of all appetite and interest in food, he was feeling hungry, looking forward to the evening meal as appetising smells of cooking drifted up from the kitchen. Dear God, a visitor was the last thing he wanted.
"Couldn't you have told her to come back tomorrow, got her to leave a message or something?" he demanded irritably.
"I hadn't the heart to send the poor lady away, Inspector sir. She'd come all the way from Glasgow on the train. And in a terrible state, poor thing. I don't know when she last had a good meal." She lowered her voice with a glance towards the stairhead. "Very ill, she is, Inspector sir, if I'm not mistaken. Fair wrung my heart just to look at her."
Mrs. Brook eyed his stony face reproachfully. "I took the liberty of reviving her with a wee sup of your brandy, sir." Leaning forward, she whispered confidentially, "Have no fears, Inspector sir. A proper lady, she is. You know I would never let the other sort in—I mean to say, any person in who wasn't a gentlewoman."
Faro tried to conceal his annoyance. As far as he was concerned, the good Mrs. Brook had behaved like the busy-body she was proving to be, well-meaning, but a bit of a nuisance. In normal circumstances, he realised, he might
have applauded her thoughtfulness, but not tonight, on the occasion of the resurrection of his lost appetite. He knew perfectly well that he was being selfish but the prospect of a stranger to deal with made him feel suddenly old and tired again, conscious of being footsore and with a childish need to be cosseted.
As if aware of her employer's conflicting thoughts, Mrs. Brook began, "I hope what I did was for the best—"
"Wait a minute—what did she want anyway that couldn't wait?"
At this sharp rejoinder, Mrs. Brook gave him an almost tearful glance. "I see I did wrong asking her in, sir. I'm sorry and I won't do it again. But—well, see for yourself. She's just lost her only brother, poor lady."
"I don't see what I can do about that, Mrs. Brook. This is a case for missing persons. Did you not tell her to go to the police?"
"She asked to see you personally." Mrs. Brook sounded offended. "I expect she read about you in the newspapers. She said you were the only one who could help her."
Faro sighed. "What else did she tell you?"
"Nothing else. She was that upset, and I'm not one to pry," Mrs. Brook added, tightening her lips self-righteously.
A lost only brother? Cynically Faro thought that usually meant the brother or cousin was the polite term for a lover. If the woman upstairs was upset, that meant they had been living together and he had run off with someone else and most likely taken her money with him. So why ask for him? Thanks to Mrs. Brook's compassion he'd have to listen to the whole wearisome story, utter platitudes of comfort and then get rid of her with some plausible excuse.
Mrs. Brook took his rather curt nod as approval and beamed upon him. "I'm glad I did right, Inspector sir." She watched him walk upstairs, little guessing that where her employer was concerned her kind heart was likely to be her undoing. If it continued to interfere with her efficiency then she would have to go, Faro decided. He must make it plain to her that being housekeeper to a policeman needed sterner qualities than those for dealing with sick patients. After all, policemen were known to have strange callers, criminals, avengers, informers, and God only knew who she might let into the house through her ever-open, ever-welcoming kitchen door.
He opened the drawing-room door. At the bay window a woman reclined against the sofa cushions. At first he thought she slept, and his entrance did not disturb her. For a big man, Faro could move both swiftly and noiselessly. When he looked down on her, she opened her eyes and sat up with considerable effort.
One glance told Faro the reason for Mrs. Brook's concern. The woman's face was pale, emaciated, exhausted-looking and ill beyond the mere travel-worn. Faro's quick eye for detail took in the shabby gentility of dress, the unmistakable badge of the lady's maid.
He closed the door behind him with the well-worn words, "What can I do for you?"
As she tried to rise, both hands propelling herself forward, a fit of coughing took her.
As she struggled, trying to apologise, Faro said:
"Please, remain seated. My housekeeper tells me you have been ill. May I get you some refreshment to help? My stepson is due home soon, he is a doctor—he may be able to offer you some restorative medicine."
"No medicine can help me now, Inspector. But it is good of you to concern yourself." She gave him a sad smile. "I am quite beyond the reach of medicines now, I fear."
Faro did not doubt that she spoke the truth, observing the two bright spots upon her cheeks, the bright eyes and flushed countenance of one far gone in consumption.
"I know I have taken an unpardonable liberty in visiting your home, instead of waiting to see you at the police office tomorrow. I was desperate, I thought you might be able to help me, for when I enquired they told me that the case is now closed."
Faro was aware of a sick feeling that marked the return of his illness as observation of that skeletal face struck a chord: the emaciated Hymes in his prison cell. He asked what he already knew: "What case is this?"
"I'm Maureen Hymes, Patrick's sister. I came over from New York hoping to see him. They let me see him, five minutes—five minutes, after all these years. Five minutes—before—" Her voice ended on a sob, quickly controlled.
"Miss Hymes—er, that was a month ago." He had not the heart to add, what was the point of coming to him now, whatever her reason.
"I know. I was ill. Afterwards—afterwards I went back to Glasgow. Pat had friends there. I collapsed." She threw her hands wide. "You can see the state I'm in, Inspector. They didn't want me to come to you, but I promised Pat. 'If it's the very last thing I do, I'll prove that you didn't murder that Goldie woman,' I told him at that last meeting. You see, Inspector, we were more than brother and sister, Pat and I were twins. Here's our birth certificate, if you're still doubtful."
Born Cork, thirty-six years ago, Patrick and Maureen Hymes, he read.
"Things were bad in Ireland when we were children. The potato famine in forty-five, and then both our parents died. Patrick came over to Glasgow, eleven years old he was and he worked anywhere, at any kind of child labour that would pay well, to buy me a passage to America where we had an uncle. He thought I'd be safe there, have a decent life. One day he promised he'd save enough money to come over. When I got to New York, Uncle Paddy had died and his widow didn't want another mouth to feed."
She stopped with a dismissive gesture. "I won't be troubling you with the rest, Inspector, except to say that I went into service, bettered myself. Twice I made enough money to send to Patrick to fulfil his dream. Twice that money was stolen. God didn't intend us to meet again, but we wrote letters. I knew Sarah was a bad lot—he hinted at things in letters. He once said if anything happened to him, would I take care of his two little girls."
She smiled wanly, looking out of the window, where the great bulk of Arthur's Seat glowed in a reflected sunset. "I never told him how ill I was. I didn't want him to know. And then, when I heard—this terrible business—I sold everything I owned in the world to come and see my brother and fulfil my promise. Those two children have no one else in the world now. I have to see them provided for—find them good homes before I—before I die," she ended firmly.
Faro was aware that, as she spoke, the Irish accent predominated the American. He was also increasingly aware of how strong the likeness must have been when the Hymes' were children, before the world's grosser sins took over her twin brother.
"I don't doubt that Sarah deserved to die," she said. "But I know that it was manslaughter rather than murder. And my Pat never killed that other girl. He's no deliberate murderer, that I do know, as God is my witness. You see, he never lied to me once in his whole life."
She smiled. "You might find this hard to believe, but Pat's great dream was to be a priest. That's what he was saving so hard for—and then he met Sarah. I suspect she seduced him and stole the money I sent. Anyway, he had to marry her with a bairn on the way. But he never lost his faith, he still lived by it."
She paused, exhausted, breathing heavily. "Inspector, you must take my word for it, someone else murdered that other girl and let Pat take the blame. I've got to find out the truth to save his immortal soul. And you've got to help me. You've got to—you're my last hope on earth of clearing my brother's name." And she began to cry.
Faro stared at her, incredulous. And you've got to help me, she said. Just like that. What was she asking? That he had to prove a dead man innocent. And he wasn't even a Catholic. He was a lapsed Presbyterian. Maureen Hymes wasn't only sick, but mad, poor creature.
In his profession Faro found it a disadvantage to be susceptible to women's tears. Most men found them embarrassing, throat-clearing occasions, whereas Jeremy Faro, trained to the tears and supplications of two small daughters, had a natural inclination to enfold this delicate, childlike woman to his shoulder and comfort her.
"Do you believe in miracles, Inspector? I should, but I can't. But I do believe in dreams. And my brother haunts mine. You may be like all the others and reckon that a man who murders once will do so again, that he m
ight as well hang for two as for one. But I know I'll be haunted to all eternity unless I can free him from the stigma of that other woman's murder."
She stood up, faced him squarely. "Now I must go. Thank you for listening to me so patiently, sir, and for giving me your precious time." She paused, then shook her head. "I'm sorry. I see I've failed to convince you." She cut short his protests with a sudden dignity that again reminded him forcibly of the condemned man in his prison cell.
"Good evening, Stepfather. Oh—my apologies, I did not realise you had a visitor."
It was Vince. Faro had forgotten that he too would be impatiently awaiting his supper, at the end of a long day in Dr. Kellar's surgery.
Faro gave him a hard look, knowing that Mrs. Brook, agog with curiosity about the mysterious woman who had suddenly appeared, must have sent him up post-haste to report on what was now taking place in the drawing-room.
As Faro made the introductions, Vince's eyebrows shot upwards at the name Hymes.
"This lady is his twin sister."
Vince bowed over her hand, holding it now with an anxious, searching glance into her countenance that betrayed the doctor's interest.
"I have been a great nuisance," she said, "burdening the Inspector with my troubles. Your stepfather is a kind man and a very good listener."
Vince's quizzical glance demanded explanation.
"Miss Hymes does not believe that her brother murdered Lily Goldie."
"Indeed? Then if there was someone else, I can assure you, madam, my stepfather is just the man to hunt him down. He is marvellously clever, you know. No one could ever escape him for ever-"
"Steady on, Vince, I'm not infallible—and I cannot allow you to give Miss Hymes false hopes. The case is closed officially, remember."
Vince made an impatient gesture. "But if he does exist—this other murderer—then this is the very man for the job." He pointed dramatically at Faro, the lamplight glinting on his pale hair, suddenly the picture of an avenging angel. "Come now, there must be clues, Stepfather, and you are quite excellent on clues."
Enter Second Murderer (An Inspector Faro Mystery No.1) Page 3
