Enter Second Murderer (11 page)

That was tomorrow. Tonight, he felt the stage in his investigations had been reached where he needed to consult his notes, and with his own observations and conclusions draw up a comprehensive account of the suspects and clues to date.

In his neat, precise handwriting, Faro headed the document:

The Convent Murders: Evidence and Clues thus far

1. Post-Mortem Evidence. Neither Hymes nor Goldie, who had described themselves for the convent records as "spinster" when examined were found to be virgins. (In the case of Hymes only, there was evidence of child-bearing, and she had indeed borne two children.) Although their deaths had been violent, neither woman had been sexually assaulted.

2. Both the Mother Superior of St. Anthony's and Hymes's twin sister Maureen had presented very valid arguments against Patrick Hymes having been the murderer of Lily Goldie. According to the Reverend Mother, he was a devout Catholic and remained so to the end, he would have confessed and wished to receive the Church's absolution for, both murders. This testimony had been confirmed by Maureen Hymes, who stated that her brother, this apparently ignorant, ill-educated member of the Irish labouring class, had once been destined for the priesthood.

3. According to the Reverend Mother, the two murdered women were physically similar. Hymes could more likely have been guilty had Goldie been his first victim—that is, if he had mistaken her for his wife in semi-darkness and sprung upon her in murderous rage. This theory does not make sense with Goldie the second victim, especially as by then Hymes had already settled accounts with his erring wife.

4. The two women, servant and teacher, were employed at the convent and arrived about the same time. Was this fact significant when allied to their physical similarity and dubious morals? Could it have some bearing on the subsequent events? Could Goldie's murderer have been a fanatical inmate, a nun, outraged by such behaviour?

5. The Mad Baronet. Were Goldie's visits as innocent as they seemed? Worth investigating.

6. Would an infatuated schoolboy who hung about watching for Goldie be able to throw any light on her last hours, always presuming that he could be tracked down at St. Leonard's?

7. Clara Burnleigh. Did the fact that she had given a false address, and was probably using a false name, have some bearing on Goldie's murder? Is she still alive or is she the third victim at present lying in the mortuary? If so, then we are dealing with a serious wave of murders, and we can expect more of them until the assassin is apprehended.

After some thought, Faro added another name:

8. Danny McQuinn. He had an intimate knowledge of the convent, had access as a respected protégé of the Reverend Mother, and was a former gardener and odd job man. According to the two maids, he was "sweet" on Goldie. Is his incomplete evidence deliberate, is he hiding something—or someone? The fact that McQuinn is a policeman does not exclude him from a fit of murderous rage.

Faro threw down his pen. Religious houses, he decided, were naturally secretive places, a boon to prospective murderers and the perfect settings for concealing evidence. Secular staff were not permitted gentleman callers. Therefore all social activities of normal young unmarried women who were not in holy orders had to be carried on
sub rosa
, which made tracking down a murderer even more difficult. Boarding schools were just a little behind convents in natural reticence regarding their inmates.

Faro shuddered at the prospect of investigating a boys' school. The headmaster, he expected, would be equally uncooperative as the Reverend Mother—and for good reason. His school might be tainted by association, however obscure, with a murder. If one of his pupils had been in contact with the murdered woman, then the headmaster wouldn't wish to know officially, and would certainly resist, with every means in his power, any attempt to make this insalubrious association public knowledge.

Reading through the account again, Faro underlined the Mad Baronet. He lived within easy access of the convent, and Lily Goldie had been known to visit Solomon's Tower. Unlikely as it seemed at first thought, this line of enquiry, which had not been investigated, thanks to McQuinn's apparent incompetence, might be pursued with profit.

He did not wait up for Vince that night. He did not want to hear all he had missed, and a ravishing account of Alison Aird as Lady Macbeth. He was relieved, too, when Vince did not appear for breakfast, having left a note for Mrs. Brook that he had retired very late and wished to sleep on undisturbed.

Chapter 9

On arrival at the Central Office, Faro was handed the description he had been waiting for:

Aged between eighteen and twenty-four. Five-foot-two in height. Curly red hair, several front teeth missing, body in poor condition, shows evidence of undernourishment, in fourth month of pregnancy. No marks of violence. Death by drowning.

Obviously a suicide, unless she had been taken out in a boat and pushed into the river. Could this poor creature have been Clara Burnleigh, and had pregnancy been her reason for running away?

At the convent, the Reverend Mother received him with even less grace than the first time, if that were possible. Staring out of the window, drumming her fingers impatiently on the desk, she listened tight-lipped to his account of the visit to Fairmilehead.

"I have no other information than what I gave you. Inspector. I am not concealing evidence, if that is what you think, to protect the reputation of the convent, which, alas, thanks to police meddling, seems unlikely to survive these shattering blows."

Cutting short his apologies, she demanded, "And now, Inspector, what is it you wish me to do?"

Explaining that the body of a woman had been washed up at Cramond, he asked, "Could you identify Miss Burnleigh from this description?"

Reading quickly, she pushed it aside with distaste. "Whoever this unfortunate creature is, she is certainly not Clara Burnleigh. There is not the slightest resemblance. Miss Burnleigh is very tall, with blonde straight hair, and she has excellent teeth."

"You are quite sure?"

"Sure, Inspector? I am positive. My eyesight is excellent and Miss Burnleigh was a particular favourite of mine—and, I would add, a girl of the highest moral principles. I cannot imagine that she would have allowed herself to join the ranks of fallen women or to commit the sin of self-destruction."

There remained the Mad Baronet, or, to give him his proper name. Sir Hedley Marsh. Faro realised that there was much to be gained from an apparently accidental meeting, an informal chat, rather than a rush to the door with all the appearance of officialdom. He decided to keep a close watch on Solomon's Tower and the behaviour of its owner, behaviour that belonged more to the early days of constables patrolling on duty, to "watching and warding" rather than criminal investigation.

At the local dairy, on pretence of being a cat-lover, he was soon informed that the Mad Baronet received his delivery for his score of cats by six o'clock. Faro suspected that, in common with many old people, the Mad Baronet rose early, and he decided to be passing the gate, on a "constitutional" himself, when the milk was taken indoors.

As he lingered, the pale morning mist enfolded and chilled him. It brought back memories of his early days on the Force. Suddenly he felt old—too old for the job. Recent illness had so weakened him that it seemed to have destroyed not only his appetite but also his self-confidence. Once upon a time, before Lizzie died, he had been hopeful, believed in the immortal soul of man, and his job of dealing with crimes and criminals had never destroyed his faith in human nature, for he had discovered that, in even the worst of them, the good seed, microscopic perhaps, still flourished and could be encouraged to grow.

When he had said this to Vince, the boy had laughed at him. "Good heavens, Stepfather, surely those are not the requisites for a good detective. You would have made priest or minister with such feelings—quite Christ-like and forgiving. Well, I never."

Faro had laughed. "And you, dear lad, had you not chosen medicine, would have made an admirable detective."

His thoughts were interrupted by the door of Solomon's Tower being thrown open as an avalanche of cats of all shapes, sizes, ages and conditions descended into the garden in the direction of the large milk churn at the gate. He was banking on the Mad Bart appearing himself. Having no servant was always something of a problem.

If there had been a maid, he thought, I could have enlisted Vince's help and, with an elaborate pretence of admiring her fine eyes, flattered her into giving information. Even a fine sturdy coachman might have been wheedled by flattery—such splendid horses. But a baronet, mad or sane, who is also a hermit—there's a plaguey difficult situation.

He did not have long to wait. The last of the cats were followed by a shambling figure, immensely tall and, despite hooded white hair and beard, Faro got an impression that he was strong still and powerfully built. It was, in fact, thanks to a piece of haddock retrieved from last night's supper that Faro had succeeded in gaining the attention of a handsome ginger tom, who leaped through the railings and bolted down the juicy morsel, giving polite thanks by an immediate caressing of Faro's ankles.

"A fine fellow you have here."

The hooded figure scowled and pretended not to hear. "Come in at once, Boxer. At once, sir."

"Boxer, is that your name?" said Faro, addressing the cat. "You're a fine chap. And so

friendly—"

"Immediately, I said!" was the shout from inside the gate, and Boxer departed somewhat reluctantly.

"I say—sir ..." shouted Faro, looking through the railings.

"What is it?"

"I don't suppose you'd have a kitten you could spare—to sell, I mean, to a good home?"

The Mad Bart scowled and cast an eye over his brood. "Depends."

"My housekeeper is a great cat-lover, and we're smitten with a plague of mice—these new houses, you know."

"Mice, is it? There hasn't been a mouse inside these walls for more years than I can remember."

As he considered Faro in the manner of one about to sell a favourite daughter, the latter said hastily, "I would willingly pay you. I'm sorry if I've offended you by my question but we are at our wits' end, and as I often see your cats in the garden when I'm out walking, I thought ..."

"I don't need payment," said the old man huffily. "Wouldn't consider it. Have plenty of kits to spare, never miss the odd one." He paused again and stared hard at Faro in the manner of one about to make a momentous decision. "Er, perhaps you'd care to step inside and look at 'em. Have some in the kitchen ready to leave their mother."

This was better luck than Faro had hoped for as, leading the way, the old man apologised for the untidiness, which was not immediately evident. Apart from the offensive odour of cat
en masse
, the house was surprisingly clean and tidy for an old man living on his own and lacking servants.

"Can I offer you some refreshment? A dram, perhaps? No?"

Faro watched the old man pour out whisky from a decanter. Lighting his pipe was a lengthy operation, so it was some time before the conversation resumed.

"Only use a couple of rooms these days, one for the cats, one for myself." Down the long stone corridor lay the kitchen, which smelt rather worse than the rest of the house, and Faro was careful not to breathe too deeply. However, the kittens were exceedingly pretty.

"I don't know how to decide which one," said Faro in all honesty. "Perhaps my housekeeper would be better able—"

"Women are no judges of a good mouser. Here, take this one. Comes of a good mouser strain. Take my word for it, you'll have no more trouble." As Faro put his hand in his pocket, the old man added sternly, "As a gift—I insist. I want no money. Can't keep 'em all. Have to be cruel to be kind sometimes," he added. "Drown a whole litter occasionally. Better that way than putting 'em out to run wild. Place would be overrun ..."

Faro could see no valid reason for refusing the offer, and hoped he had not let himself in for Mrs. Brook's displeasure, seeing the mouse plague had been a pure piece of invention and he had not the least idea whether the housekeeper was a cat-lover or not. He was considering by what means he could extend the interview when the Mad Bart suddenly said, "I know you. You're that detective chap. You live across in the new houses."

"That is correct," said Faro weakly. "How did you know?"

"Girl who came to visit my cats, from the convent, told me who you were."

"Girl?"

"You know, one who was murdered—second one. Teacher. Heard about it. Grocer lad told me. Most unfortunate."

"So you knew her?"

The Mad Bart looked vague. "No more than I know you, sir. As I said, saw my cats. Took a notion to buying one. Mice in her room, too. Scared of 'em. Pleasant girl, kind too. Was suffering from one of my attacks of the ague at the time. Told me the nuns made a good concoction of herbs. Brought some. Papist muck, of course, but did the trick. Never saw her again." His accompanying sigh, a shake of the great shaggy head, more than any words gave a glimpse of the loneliness of his life. "No. Never saw her again," he repeated sadly. "Rotten business. Glad they got the fellow. Deserved to swing for it.
Crime passionnel
, was it?"