‘What did he look like? Could he have been visiting one of the farms?’ I added loudly in deference to her deafness.
Mrs Aiden shook her head and seemed bewildered by the question. ‘I didn’t take much notice of what he looked like.’ And with a stifled sob, ‘he might have been Satan himself – for all I cared at that moment. All I wanted was a big strong man to help me carry the Father from the church into the house. I thought he might be still alive then. That we might save him. But we were too late.’
Wringing a handkerchief in her hands as she spoke, she was clearly at a loss as to why I was so interested and I felt bad for upsetting her like this.
Tomorrow, perhaps in a calmer light, she might remember some important detail about the stranger who had arrived on the scene so fortuitously.
The man I regarded with utmost suspicion as his killer. The shadowy figure lurking in the confessional who, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover, was also my stalker.
But why I should be stalked on my arrival in Eildon, I had not the least idea or what was the link with the murder of Danny McQuinn’s elderly cousin.
Chapter Eleven
Cheerful lamplight from the kitchen window illuminated my walk up the farm track. Somehow it failed to lure me into spending the rest of the evening by the fireside having a cosy chat with Jack’s parents.
Their two topics of conversation would be a wedding – mine – and a funeral – Father McQuinn’s. In no mood for answering awkward questions on either, I tiptoed past and went to the stable.
There Thane greeted my arrival with delight, springing up on his three good feet. I put my arms around his neck and sat on the straw beside him.
Charity looked down at us and snorted in thinly veiled contempt. She wasn’t a particularly friendly old animal, kept herself to herself, I thought, as I whispered to Thane. Telling him all my troubles, my worries about Jack and whether I was doing the right thing. Or whether I had any alternative.
Thane seemed to understand and held out the splinted paw for my sympathy.
‘I wish we were back home,’ I said. ‘How I long for Solomon’s Tower.’
Thane understood that too.
I retired to my bedroom feeling depressed. The thought of being static with Jack’s parents for another week was like being confined in a cage, a very comfortable well-fed cage, but still a trap. So I resolved that as soon as Thane was out of his splint and pronounced fit by Mr Macmerry, I would return for a respite, however brief, to Edinburgh.
Meantime, completely ignoring Jack’s warning, I would fill in my time with some discreet enquiries into the matter of Father McQuinn’s untimely end.
I knew what I had seen in the church. I had seen a dead man – and he had been murdered. I wasn’t convinced by Mrs Aiden’s explanation. Or by the doctor or by Jack.
I stubbornly maintained, against all odds, the gut feeling that came with so many of my murder cases. To be clinched when tomorrow I tackled Mrs Aiden about that wet patch on the stone floor, the bloodstains so carefully removed.
This was the first clue.
Had she, despite the shattering and totally unexpected death and Jack’s logical explanation, noticed that stain and felt that blood spilt in church was so sacrilegious that having seen the priest carried into the house, she had quickly returned to the scene armed with mop and bucket?
Common sense insisted that no one in a such a shocked state would have made the return trip to the church, or indeed that a busy cleaning-up operation with soap and water would have been in the forefront of their mind.
There was only one exception to this reasoning – the person who had washed the floor was Father McQuinn’s killer.
Tomorrow, then, I would have all the evidence I needed.
But tomorrow, as it turned out, was not soon enough.
At breakfast next morning, asked the now usual question of what I intended to do today, realising there was little to be gained by being devious, I said that I would like to take the priest’s housekeeper some flowers.
Jack’s father nodded approvingly, ‘Aye, lass. You do that. There’s some fine roses in the garden.’
I looked across at Mrs Macmerry’s rather sour expression as he asked, ‘That all right by you, Jess?’
A brief nod in reply, she seized a basket and, following her into the garden, I watched how skilfully her secateurs released some of her choicest blooms.
‘I expect she has vases in plenty, and I’d like my basket back.’
With the church house in view, I realised that once again I was to be thwarted. Apparently I was not the only one in the village with the same idea of bringing flowers to Mrs Aiden.
A small group of women were gathered outside the door.
As I approached their agitated voices indicated that something was seriously amiss.
White shocked faces were turned towards me.
‘What has happened?’
‘It’s Mrs Aiden. She took a fall –’
‘Fell down the stairs –’
‘Is she hurt?’ An unnecessary question – I already feared the worst considering what looked ominously like a Greek chorus of tragedy.
‘She’s dead –’
‘Aye,’ (with a sob) ‘broke her poor neck in the fall –’
‘The new priest discovered her –’
‘Father Boyle –’
‘Arrived off the Edinburgh train this morning –’
‘Came expecting to conduct Father McQuinn’s funeral –’
‘Now he’ll have two of them to put to rest!’
(This raised a fresh chorus of sobs.)
‘Found the door open –’
‘She never locked her door, Maggie –’
‘And there she was, lying at the foot of the stairs–’
Although they didn’t know me, they stood aside to let me into the house. Perhaps they thought that I had some business there, some authority.
Mrs Aiden was no longer lying at the foot of the stairs.
Voices from the kitchen indicated that she had been moved. Her body had been laid out on the sofa, the parlour occupied by the dead priest’s coffin.
Dr Dalrymple, whom I had already met, was snapping closed his bag and handing over a piece of paper, presumably the death certificate, to the constable, busily scribbling details in a small notebook, his demeanour solemn as befitted the occasion.
The new priest, Father Boyle, identified by a black cassock and a biretta, knelt beside the dead woman, holding her hands, his lips moving in prayer.
The quartet was completed by a thin man in a tall hat with mourning ribbons, Mr Symons, local undertaker-cum-carpenter, standing by respectfully awaiting his turn, nervously flexing his measuring tape and trying to look unobtrusive and efficient.
The doctor saw me in the doorway clutching my basket of flowers. He shook his head. ‘Sad business, my dear. Sad indeed.’
The new priest stood up. Tall, bearded, stern-visaged but otherwise undistinguished. He could have been any age between thirty and fifty. Somehow I had expected him to be a young curate.
Introduced to him as Miss Faro, which I had not the heart to correct, he asked, ‘Were you a friend?’
‘Not really. We had only just met. I was related to Father McQuinn by marriage.’ Frowning, he regarded me solemnly. ‘I see, I see.’ About to explain, my words were cut short by Mr Symons, requesting the priest’s urgent attention. Left standing there, I wasn’t sure what to do next. The room was small for four large men, all towering over me. All with their own business in hand, they regarded me expectantly and with nothing else to contribute, I indicated the flowers.
‘I came to – to bring her these –’ And suddenly, near to angry tears, ‘How on earth – I mean, falling downstairs – it doesn’t usually kill someone –’
They looked surprised and uncomfortable at this outburst, and their embarrassed expressions said quite plainly that the last thing they needed was the presence of a hysterical woman. The doctor le
d me gently back into the hallway, followed by the constable who closed the door.
‘Very unfortunate,’ sighed Dr Dalrymple. ‘Nearly all fatalities happen in the home, you know,’ he added, meaning to be kind and reassuring while I bit back some searching questions about Father McQuinn’s accident that was almost certainly murder.
‘The poor lady was quite beyond my help when I was called,’ the doctor continued as the constable approached us.
My introduction as Miss Rose Faro went uncorrected as Constable Bruce said, ‘Father Boyle came rushing to my door, frantic to know where the doctor lived.’
I thought he was lucky to find the police house so quickly. It could hardly be called a police station, since at first glance Eildon appeared to be singularly lacking in such amenities.
‘It was too late for me to do anything,’ said Dr Dalrymple. ‘Never a day’s illness although she was getting very deaf. I can’t recall the last time I saw her as a patient. She occasionally collected pills for Father McQuinn’s rheumatism when it was bad in the winter, out in all weathers.’
The doctor paused, shook his head sadly. ‘It was intended that Father Boyle should do the heavy work of visiting his scattered flock way up in the hills. Apart from rheumatism he seemed otherwise fit.’ He sighed. ‘But you never can tell. Hearts can give out any day and accidents are always looking for somewhere to happen,’ he added gloomily.
‘I realised the poor lady was dead the minute I saw her,’ put in the constable. ‘Cold she was, you know. Must have happened during the night.’
Looking up the short flight of stairs, the doctor nodded, ‘Bedrooms are up there. I expect she was coming down in the dark for something. You will observe that there is a w.c. just along the passage,’ he added delicately. ‘Caught her foot on a frayed part of the stair carpet –’
I looked up the stairs. There were ten of them, not very steep, up to the landing. Half way down, a torn rag of carpet.
We all had to move aside as a young woman arrived with several wreaths and went hurriedly into the parlour.
The doctor, muttering, ‘Sad business indeed,’ made his exit and I was left with the constable who was frowning at the flight of stairs as if they might provide an answer to the housekeeper’s fatal fall.
Looking round, he gave a shout and sprang into action.
Where it had rolled, half hidden by a hall stand overburdened with cloaks, walking sticks and umbrellas, lay the guilty house-slipper.
The constable picked it up, turned it over in his hand. Old and worn, out of shape, accommodating bunions and corns. An old friend looked forward to as the comfort of Mrs Aiden’s sore feet at the end of each day.
‘Were you present when the doctor was examining her?’ I asked. He nodded, still regarding the slipper with fierce concentration as if it might have some interesting information to impart.
‘Did you happen to notice if there were any bruises on her arms?’ He gave me a startled look. ‘Not that I could see, she was wearing a long sleeved nightgown. Why do you ask?’
I turned my attention back to the stairs. ‘It’s just rather odd.’
‘Odd, in what way?’
‘Have you ever fallen downstairs?’ I asked.
He laughed at that. ‘Glory be – man and boy, more times than I’ve had hot dinners!’ He looked at me, still puzzled by the question.
‘I’ve taken many a tumble as well, constable. And the house I live in has stone steps, spirals – much steeper than these.’
Suddenly alert and interested, he asked, ‘So –?’
‘Well, what’s the first thing you – and most of us – do when you lose your balance and feel yourself falling?’
He frowned, thought a moment and said, ‘Stretch out an arm or a hand – to grab something –’
‘Me too. That’s the natural way and we end up with nasty bruises.’
He nodded, looking puzzled as I continued, ‘But to fall down a few carpeted stairs and break one’s neck, constable? Doesn’t that suggest to you that she fell stiffly, precipitated headlong down from a greater height than five feet. Enough to break her neck.’
‘I see what you’re getting at. As you say, it is unusual, you’d imagine she would have stumbled forward and rolled down –’
Deep in thought, the constable rubbed his chin.
‘May I?’ And taking the slipper from him, I turned it over in my hands, examining it carefully. The sole was worn thin and smooth with constant wear.
‘Observe,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing here to catch – no heel, no projection of any kind.’
‘What are you getting at, miss?’
‘It looks as if she fell with more force than would be justified by a slippered foot encountering a piece of frayed carpet.’
‘Maybe you’re right. But we’ll never know now, will we?’
The kitchen door opened and Father Boyle looked out. He had heard our voices and seemed surprised to find us lingering by the stairs.
‘Oh, you’re still there. May we have a word, constable?’
As he disappeared I decided to have a closer look at that frayed carpet. Kneeling on the stairs, it was certainly threadbare at the steep edges. But that was not what had caused Mrs Aiden’s fatal accident.
There was a cut, the kind made with a sharp knife, about six inches long, showing fresh and clean fibres against the worn threads.
I felt a sudden chill, a strange flash of insight which shook me considerably. If Father McQuinn had been murdered, as I believed, what about the man who had helped Mrs Aiden carry him into the house?
The mysterious passer-by, the stranger who was to have been the object of my enquiry.
Was it possible that he had also killed Mrs Aiden, so that any revelation of his identity would safely be buried with her?
But why? The burning question remained. For every murder there has to be a reason, a motive. Why should an unknown man come to Eildon with the express purpose of slaying the Catholic priest? And his housekeeper?
It just didn’t make sense.
I went into the garden. Most of the women had moved beyond the gate.
Footsteps behind me as I walked along the road. The constable had followed me out. ‘Nasty business, miss,’ he said.
‘More work for the Fiscal?’
He looked at me in astonishment and laughed. ‘Not this time. Accidents in the home aren’t for him. No suspicious circumstances.’
‘You’re sure of that, constable?’
‘You mean about the stairs?’ He shrugged. ‘Interesting theory.’ And pushing back his helmet to scratch his forehead, ‘Quite an amazing deduction.’
Then echoing my own thoughts. ‘But who would want to kill the priest’s housekeeper?’
I considered telling him about the carpet, deliberately cut, but decided to keep that vital clue to myself for the time being as, shaking his head firmly, he said: ‘Just coincidence, these accidents. Life’s like that. But let’s hope they aren’t catching.’
Knowing the futility of argument, I said I hoped not and he went on, ‘I understand you are getting married here in a short while, at the other church,’ he added politely.
I said yes and he nodded. ‘Known young Jack for years. Wish I’d had his luck.’
‘How’s that?”
‘Big time detective, great Edinburgh crimes. Not like here. Never as much as a poacher most of the time, his lordship’s gamekeeper sees to that with his mantraps. Then we have two fatalities in twenty four hours.’ He chuckled grimly. ‘Business is brisk.’
I remained silent and, regarding me curiously, he said, ‘I knew your father, Inspector Faro, by the way.’
As Jack had warned me, news certainly got around. Doubtless Andrew Macmerry was keen to boast of his future daughter-in-law’s famous connection.
‘He was here on a case years ago. A great man –’ and regarding me shrewdly, taking in my lack of inches, my deceptively gentle appearance, ‘– I dare say if you had been a lad you’d have foll
owed in his footsteps.’
That infuriating assumption! ‘I might well have done that,’ I said coldly. Then another more productive reaction. ‘Did you ever meet my father’s sergeant, Danny McQuinn?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Just a fleeting glimpse. I expect that was the young chap he had with him. Some connection with this area, I seem to remember.’
Good for the constable, I thought, and said. ‘Danny McQuinn was my husband, so I am – was – related to the old priest by marriage.’
He gave me a startled look. ‘You’re married?’
‘A widow – for several years now.’
‘I’m sorry, miss – I mean, ma’am. You being Jack’s fiancée, Mrs Macmerry has always talked about you as Miss Rose Faro.’
Which confirmed that Jack’s mother did not intend the world to know that her beloved only son was marrying another man’s relict.
Watching my expression, the constable changed the subject quickly. ‘Policemen run in the family, eh. So that accounts for your interest in our accidents?’
It was a question and when I didn’t respond, he shrugged, ‘Frankly I haven’t had enough experience of real crimes in all my years in the force to immediately recognise the margin between accident and intent. There isn’t much foul play in Eildon, you’ll gather. We pride ourselves on our peaceful village. I reckon the sack of the Abbey must have been the last act of violence in this area.’
And without waiting for a reply, suddenly eager, ‘I wonder what young Jack will have to say about Mrs Aiden’s accident?’
‘He doesn’t know. He left last night shortly after Father McQuinn was found –’
He sighed. ‘I don’t suppose accidents in the home would have much interest for an Edinburgh detective.’
‘Not if they were accidents,’ I said.
He gave me a long glance and whistled. ‘So you think Mrs Aiden might not have fallen – that she might have been pushed downstairs. It’s a bit far-fetched – but –’
Stroking his chin, he looked suddenly very excited. His eyes gleamed. And at that moment I realised I had found an ally, someone who might be prepared to believe me.
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