Enter Second Murderer (An Inspector Faro Mystery No.1)

by Alanna Knight

  Again she smiled at him, her manner relaxed, inviting conversation. Faro's mind had suddenly emptied of social chat and, sounding infernally dull, even to himself, he said, "I trust your lodgings are comfortable and to your liking?"

  She nodded, frowning. Did she think him tight-lipped and unfriendly? Dear God, did he have to sound so stiff and formal?

  "This area is no place for a gentlewoman these days."

  "You mistake me, Mr. Faro. I am no gentlewoman, just an ordinary actress—"

  "But the area is insalubrious—have you not been warned of its dangers?" He pointed to the wooden palisades that divided Minto Street, where they were standing, from Causeway side. "There is another such at Salisbury Road. What do you think they are for, Mrs. Aird? They are to keep thieves and vagabonds, the wild beasts who lurk around Wormwoodhall and the Sciennes from infiltrating into a decent respectable neighbourhood. The rowdies who break the peace are, alas, the New Town puppies from this side and the keelies from Causeway side." He stopped, breathless, not having meant to indulge in such a long speech.

  "Indeed? Does that also account for the lodge gates at both ends of Sheridan Drive? To keep it select?"

  Feeling uncomfortably that she was laughing at him, he replied, "I don't know about select, but I hope you will not be tempted into this area after nightfall."

  "That is highly unlikely." And she looked away, like someone suddenly bored, as well she might be, he thought desperately. Politely, she said, "I will bear in mind your good advice. But I am delaying you ..."

  "Not at all. It is a pleasure to talk to you again."

  "Is it really?" There was sincere surprise in her voice and her accompanying smile which made him realise that her first impressions had been far from favourable. She doubtless thought him oafish, a pompous bore.

  "I was on my way to hire a gig to go to Fairmilehead tomorrow. Over there," he pointed, "on the approaches to the Pentlands."

  "I've been wondering about those hills. They are very tempting, some day I mean to explore them."

  "Why not tomorrow, then? Why not come with me?" The words had burst out of him as if of their own accord as he towered over her, stammering, blushing like a schoolboy.

  She put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, I did not mean to intrude ..."

  "Of course you didn't. But as this is a purely routine matter of business, I would—would enjoy your company."

  Faro walked home, conscious that his step had lightened considerably. He chuckled delightedly, feeling that he had shed twenty years in the past ten minutes.

  Mrs. Brook met him with a message that Vince was to spend the night at Corstorphine. "I was to tell you that he would attend to the business you had discussed before returning to Edinburgh."

  So Vince was to call on Miss McDermot. Good lad. And before closing his eyes that night. Faro said, "God, I know how busy you are and I haven't asked you for anything since you decided to take Lizzie and the wee lad away from me. But, please God, if you can spare the time for this small request, please, let it be a fine day tomorrow. Keep the rain off. That's all I ask."

  His prayer was answered. He collected the gig in the radiant sunshine of early summer. Ten minutes later he was sitting outside Mrs. Aird's lodging. Tucking the blanket about her, he was again assailed by that feeling of lighthearted youth. When in recent times had he felt as young as this? As they jogged down the road together, her arm comfortably close to his own, their legs touching as they took a corner, he had to restrain the longing to put an arm about her shoulders and look into that pretty face instead of staring at the road ahead.

  She was a convert to the Quaker religion, she told him, and had been visiting the Meeting House at Causeway-side. The actress in her brought vividly to life the characters she had met, those who remembered the area as a thriving weaving community, their Edinburgh shawls sought after as far away as New York shops.

  Faro was at peace at her side, content to listen, as they climbed past fields and woods and the grey clutter of villages. Then a distant prospect of the castle brooding darkly down upon the smoking chimneys of Edinburgh, justifying Robert Burns's epithet of "Auld Reekie".

  A train crawled, puffing importantly and thinly along the railway line, and tiny ships were tacking in the Forth. Their passing gig brought forth from every farm the warning bark of dogs, the agitation of barnyard fowls. A curlew swooped, crying, and for Faro the feeling of déjà vu persisted. Had his companion not already said those words, laughed like that at a solemn donkey staring over a hedge, exclaimed delightedly at the sight of children feeding a lamb? He looked at her, filling the empty corners of his life with such grace and harmony, amazed anew that fate had given no warning, no allowance for this intrusion into his life.

  Alison Aird was a stranger, but already as she spoke each contour of her face shaped itself into a familiar pattern. As each gesture struck a chord of remembrance, he found himself at the mercy of his own background, which he was careful to conceal from public gaze and comment. The second sight his seal-woman grandmother had bequeathed to him had never seen an occasion for rejoicing.

  That intuition accounted for perhaps ten per cent of his success as a detective, and had more than once been a factor in putting him in the right direction of vital clues. It did not always work in his private life, alas. He had no warning when his sweet Lizzie bore their son that she and the boy would be dead, lost and gone for ever, in a matter of days.

  "And Hugo tells me that the handsome young doctor is your stepson," Mrs. Aird was saying. Could it be that she had been enquiring about him? He was flattered.

  "Indeed. I am a widower, with two little girls living up north with their grandmother. What of you—is Mrs. Aird a courtesy title only?"

  She shook her head and sighed. "Would that it were so. I am a widow." She cut short his commiserations. "It is a long time ago, and I was married for such a short time that I have almost forgotten the experience." Pausing, she added, "I was not so fortunate as yourself, my only child also died." Then, as a tactful indication that the subject was closed, she pointed a gloved hand. "Over there. Is that our destination?"

  Before them lay Fairmilehead, a huddle of roofs and smoking chimneys with two thread-like roads joining beside a wood heavy with summer trees.

  "Journey's end." He wondered, could it be the same for her? The completion of another journey they had begun together in a world whose shadowy confines were long lost to them?

  He looked into her eager smiling face. How unbelievable that this feeling of familiarity was all wrong. This was but their third meeting. And he knew already, with painful certainty, that before the day was ended and they returned in the gig, his heart would be lost to her.

  Faro's natural reaction was rebellion at the idea of falling in love again, with all that it entailed. Green love-sickness was the last thing a detective needed, especially a man nearly forty. He knew that his powers of detection worked more efficiently without domestic ties. That was his main reason for distancing himself from his young daughters in Orkney. Even happily married, he had known that he would be a better policeman on his own, with the kind of life he lived, with its uncertain hours, its possible dangers.

  While delighting in the experience of having her by his side, he groaned inwardly, suddenly cursing himself for his own folly, wishing he had not asked her, or that she had refused to come. Damn it, how could he help this feeling of rapture? He was helpless to escape, rushing headlong into whatever torments lay ahead. He had thought with Lizzie's death that this chapter of his life had closed for ever, that nothing would again interfere with his dedication. Was he yet to discover that love was eternal, that as long as a man breathed it lurked inescapable on that road from birth to death?

  "Do you wish me to wait for you here?"

  "You may accompany me, if you wish."

  She frowned."You mentioned a business engagement—I would not wish to intrude."

  Faro smiled. "I am a police officer, Mrs. Aird—a detective. And this
is a mere routine enquiry."

  Mrs. Aird looked startled. "I had no idea, sir. I presumed you were a business man of some sort. You have the look of an advocate."

  "I wish I was as affluent." Faro smiled.

  She gave him a hard look. "I will remain here, Mr. Faro, and wait for you." She opened the large handbag she carried. "I have a script to read—my lines, you know."

  "You are sure? I will be as quick as I can." And tucking the rug around her, Faro started off down the road, where he stopped an old man, bent double over a stick, and asked directions to Hill Cottage, Mill Lane. "Number fifteen, it says here."

  The answer was a shake of the head. "There's no cottage of that name hereabouts. The general store'll mebbe know—newcomers, are they?"

  "Burnleigh, did you say? Number fifteen?" repeated the woman behind the counter, with a shake of her head. "People don't go much by numbers here. I don't know the name and my man Jock's the posty. He'd be able to tell you but he's away in the far pasture. But there's Mill Lane, you can see for yourself, across there."

  Mill Lane was old and cobbled, the cottages huddled in antiquity. The numbers ran out at eleven. Faro pondered, and took a chance on number eleven, where a young woman answered the door, obviously in the middle of feeding the crying baby in her arms. No, she had never heard of any Burnleighs. "Look, there's Jock—see him, he'll know."

  Hurrying back along the lane, Faro once more repeated the story, this time at the top of his voice, as Jock was more than slightly deaf.

  "There's no' many folk biding here and I ken them all. Besides, Burnleigh is an unusual name, I would remember a name like that."

  "I was told that she had come back from Edinburgh—she was a teacher at the convent in Newington—to take care of her mother who was ailing and had sent for her."

  Jock shook his head. "I canna help ye, I'm sorry."

  Faro walked back towards the gig, deep in thought. Here was something odd indeed. Was this what he was waiting for? Why had Miss Burnleigh chosen to disappear at the time of Lily Goldie's murder, leaving a false address?

  He felt the familiar twitch of danger alerted. Had he stumbled on a clue to the identity of the second murderer at last?

  Alison Aird put away her script as he took his seat beside her in the gig. "Were your enquiries successful?" she asked, curious as to his preoccupation.

  "I am more baffled than ever," he said, suddenly needing to tell her the real reason for his visit.

  "A teacher at the convent, you said. Was that where the recent murders took place?"

  "It was."

  "I thought the murderer had been hanged?"

  "I thought so too ..." And Faro went on to tell her of the visit of Maureen Hymes. "I keep asking myself why Clara Burnleigh left a false address and spun a tissue of lies about going home to a sick mother, when neither mother nor the house exist."

  "It might not be entirely sinister, of course," said Mrs. Aird. "It might mean only that she preferred not to tell the truth?"

  "But why?"

  Mrs. Aird smiled. "Well, it's perfectly easy for another woman to understand."

  "Is it indeed?"

  "I can see you're a stickler for truth at all times, Inspector, but Miss Burnleigh's deception might be more readily explained."

  "In what way?"

  She laughed. "The most natural of ways. Imagine she had a lover—a married man—and she has gone off with him. She would hardly be likely to wish to confess that to the Reverend Mother. Or, far more likely, she had the offer of a better situation and was too embarrassed to tell the truth—a white lie, a piece of face-saving, so as not to hurt her employer's feelings."

  "I still think Miss Burnleigh's behaviour needs investigating."

  "Ah, but that is because you are looking at it from the point of view of crime being involved, trying to exercise your deductive powers and find a hidden criminal motive when in fact the whole thing is no more than innocent deception."

  "We're back to deception again—and I must once again disagree with you. In my book there is no such thing as innocent deception. Mrs. Aird, you are talking in paradoxes."

  Mrs. Aird shrugged. "Paradoxes are all too often a necessary part of a female's survival in this man's world. It is part of our nature to be devious upon occasion."

  Faro could think of no suitable reply, and as they came in sight of the Pleasance again the sun was setting on Arthur's Seat. A tranquil evening in a world where only man—or woman, when occasion demanded, according to Mrs.Aird—was vile. Be that as it may, he was reluctant to let the evening end.

  "Shall we continue into Princes Street Gardens, listen to the band for a while?"

  Mrs. Aird shook her head. "Forgive me, but I must return to my lodging."

  At least she offered no excuse, no white lie, but Faro found himself wishing that she had, despite their earlier conversation. It was easier for his male pride to accept an excuse than what he must presume: that she had had enough of him and his dour society for one day. Had he thrown away, by his own folly, an excellent chance of further acquaintance? Thinking back over the day, he felt he had not acquitted himself too well. On almost every score he could have done better. Would Mrs. Aird consider him worthy of another chance?

  While he waited impatiently for Vince's return home that evening, he hoped that the interview with Miss McDermot had been more productive. Whatever Mrs. Aird's explanations, he found the disappearance of Miss Burnleigh so near to the murder of Lily Goldie oddly sinister, and felt that somehow the two were connected.

  It was late when Vince arrived home. His first question was, "Well, Stepfather, how was Fairmilehead?"

  "Another mystery, lad."

  Vince listened in silence to Faro's story of the missing Miss Burnleigh. "Well, I hope you did better with Miss McDermot."

  "At least Miss McDermot exists, very prettily, too. I was just in time to find her emigrating to Canada." He groaned. "She goes on the next sailing—in two days—I'm quite heartbroken ..."

  "I accept that, but did she tell you anything useful?"

  "It seems that Lily Goldie didn't care much for her fellow teachers, or for female company in general. However, she did mention that on two occasions when she was out collecting nature specimens she observed Lily leaving Solomon's Tower."

  "So? We already know that from Sister Theresa. Presumably she was negotiating the transfer of a kitten."

  "You really think that's all?"

  "Look, lad, occasionally our Mad Baronet, an ardent Calvinist who hates popery, rains down biblical curses on passing inmates of St. Anthony's, calling them the whores of Babylon. And he carries on a war of insults and threats with the boys at St. Leonard's School."

  Vince tapped the notes on Faro's desk. "I imagine they torment him. But he did entertain a young and attractive teacher from the convent. Could he have made some improper advance, been repelled and had a brainstorm?"

  "I'll be the most surprised man on the force if you're right, lad. But thanks for all your trouble."

  "No trouble at all, Stepfather. It was a very great pleasure—although, alas, a short-lived one—to meet the delectable Miss McDermot." He sighed.

  "By the way," said Faro, trying to sound casual, "I took Mrs. Aird with me to Fairmilehead."

  "Mrs. Aird?" Vince's eyebrows shot upwards. "How did you manage that?"

  "Met her out walking when I was hiring the gig. She expressed interest in the distant view of the Pentlands and announced herself delighted to accompany me."

  "Well!" Vince was obviously impressed. "And what did you find out about the delectable Mrs. Aird?"

  "That she is in fact a widow—husband long dead."

  "Anything about Tim Ferris?" When Faro shook his head, Vince said, "It's quite possible that she didn't know of his association with Lily Goldie and believed that he had committed suicide because of her."

  "Since you suggested it, I've been thinking along those lines too. Perhaps a closer acquaintance with Mrs. Aird will reveal a
ll."

  "Have you another assignation?"

  "Not immediately." When Vince looked disappointed, his stepfather, not wishing to lose face, said hastily, "She is very involved with her next role for the Thespians."

  "I should have thought she would have them all off by heart by now."

  Faro offered no further comment and left for the Central Office, where he found an urgent message awaiting him. A message which suggested that his forebodings had been right and that they were now dealing with the murder of a third victim.

  The body of a young woman had been washed up at Cramond Island.

  Chapter 8

  Faro knew the Cramond area well. He and Vince often spent a pleasant afternoon canoeing on the River Forth and taking a picnic on the island. Constable Danny McQuinn had been off-duty visiting in the area and had been the first on the scene when the alarm was raised.

  "A little lad was playing at the water's edge—he made the discovery. They put up the alarm flag for the boatman., since it was high tide and they'd had to drag the body ashore in case it drifted out to sea again."

  Faro sighed. "Thereby destroying any likely clues."

  "Clues, sir. There weren't many clues. I'd reckon this was a suicide."

  "Oh, and what reasons would you have for that conclusion?"

  McQuinn thought for a moment. "Young she was, fully clothed—at least, she had been when she fell in. Looked as if she might have been in the water for a week or two."

  "Any means of identification?"

  "Not any obvious ones. It wasn't my duty to carry out an investigation. That was for the police surgeon," he reminded Faro. "Is that all, sir? I believe they are doing the post-mortem now."

  Faro nodded. Vince had accompanied Dr. Kellar to the mortuary.

  "Before you go—a moment. You didn't by any chance recognise the body, did you, as that of Miss Clara Burnleigh?"

  Constable McQuinn stared at him, and then blushed furiously. "Miss—Miss Burnleigh? You mean from the convent?"