Enter Second Murderer (13 page)

"Before you do so, I ought to tell you that I am a detective inspector—in this case acting in a private capacity."

"I see no reason why there should not be gentlemen among policemen." She gave him a shrewd glance. "I have lived a long time. Inspector Faro, and whatever your profession you have the look of a man I would trust."

The maid brought in tea, and when it was served Mrs. Wishart continued, "Burnleigh is not Clara's real name. That is her mother's name and was mine before I married. Clara is my grand-niece. Her real name is Clerkwell." She paused. "There was a great scandal attached to that name about fifteen years ago. Perhaps you remember it?"

"Of course. A case of embezzlement and—"

"And Clara's mother was deeply involved with the partner in the firm. You know the rest."

It had been before his time, but was a
cause célèbre
in the records of the Edinburgh City Police. Clerkwell had been cheated by his stepbrother and had committed suicide—a suicide in such suspicious circumstances that it was very probably murder dressed up to look as if Clerkwell had taken his own life. Ethel Clerkwell was tried and acquitted with the verdict: Not Proven.

"The poor child, my grand-niece, lived under the stigma of all that implied in Edinburgh society."

Faro smiled grimly. Not Proven was a byword with the magistrates. We know you did it, but we can't prove it. Go away and don't do it again.

"Her mother's life was shattered by the scandal. Her health never recovered and Clara had nursed her devotedly. Imagine a child of ten, hardly understanding anything but the terrible cloud that hovered over her mother's reason. By the time the child was eighteen, it looked as if poor Ethel would have to be committed to an insane asylum. But Clara stayed with her until, mercifully, two years ago she died. Clara was heartbroken but free. They had long since reverted to the name of Burnleigh, and it was under that name she sought a situation as a teacher in an Edinburgh convent—I cannot remember the name."

Faro told her, and asked, "Did the sisters know her story?"

Mrs. Wishart shook her head. "No. As I told you, she wished to begin a completely new life. She told no one. A year ago, she met a young man of property, well connected in Edinburgh society. They fell in love and he asked her to marry him. She was in something of a dilemma, poor child, for she was afraid that by telling him the truth she would lose him. While she was summoning up her courage, one of the maids was murdered. The police came to investigate and my poor Clara was horrified, guiltily aware that they might well discover the truth about her on the eve of her marriage, which she had kept secret even from the sisters. And so she fled."

Mrs. Wishart paused to refill Faro's teacup. "I have to tell you that Clara's story has a happy ending. The young man's regard for her was in no way diminished by her revelations. Her story merely strengthened the depth of his love and determination to cherish her as his wife. If you wish, I can ask her if she would be willing to speak to you, privately, of course."

"If you would be so good. I will give you my address."

"That will not be necessary, Inspector. She lives not far away—in the next village. Her husband is not at home, alas, a family bereavement has him in Stirling this week. Clara was unable to accompany him for reasons of health."

"She is ailing?"

Mrs. Wishart smiled fondly. "Shall we say, they have expectations of a happy event and the early stages are somewhat trying?"

"Perhaps I should not intrude upon her at this time?"

"By this hour of the day, the worst will be over. It is only in the mornings when she feels considerably unwell and would be unlikely to feel strong enough to receive a visitor."

As he pocketed Clara's card and prepared to take his leave, Faro said, "You have been very helpful, Mrs. Wishart. I trust that your grand-niece will receive me as graciously."

"I think you have my word for that. My poor Clara, having suffered so greatly herself, has learned the lesson early in life, that we should be willing to help others in distress. And this unhappy relative of poor Miss Goldie?" she enquired, inviting further explanation. When this was not forthcoming, she went on, "My grand-niece has a kind heart. I am sure she will receive you."

On the doorstep, Faro turned and thanked her once again.

"One moment, Inspector. There is one question you might be good enough to answer—to satisfy my curiosity."

"And that is?"

"Who gave you my name? I ask because it appears that our secret is not as well hidden as we imagined."

Faro considered and decided against revealing the scurrilous letter. "It came without any signature. Do you have an enemy, Mrs. Wishart?" he added gently.

The old lady was unperturbed. "Perhaps everyone has, Inspector. Resentments, old slights, fester through the years in small villages. There were those who were jealous of Clara's good marriage."

Faro worked on the well-worn principle that there is much to be gained from the element of surprise, namely, the unexpected visit. He knew from long experience that those first minutes are crucial, for it is then more than at any other time that, to the detective's shrewd and observant eye, guilt is revealed or innocence proclaimed without a word being exchanged.

Clara Denbridge, née Burnleigh, lived but two miles away from her great-aunt, and Faro once again left the cab in a convenient lane at a discreet distance from the house. It was a pleasant sunny day and he enjoyed the walk with its prospect of Edinburgh Castle like a great grey ship sailing on the far horizon. Mellowed by distance, it became the castle from a fairy tale. Hard to believe that beyond those great trees and hidden villages lay a thriving bustling city of commerce, a city where every stone was steeped in a bloody history of battles and violence.

Faro sighed. And it seemed to get worse rather than better as the centuries progressed. If there was a lesson to be taken from history, it was that men lived but never learned from the mistakes of the past.

The Denbridge residence was in the modern baronial style, bristling with pepperpot turrets, in blatant imitation of the ruined old castle which frowned down upon it from the hillside. Set in an attractive garden, along an impressive drive with a coach-house, its air of opulence was completed by the trimly uniformed maid who opened the door.

From her slightly flustered, anxious appearance, Faro deduced even before she opened her mouth that she was a local lass, bursting with pride at having a smart new uniform as she twitched at cap and pinafore. Her eagerness to be helpful suggested that she had not been long in her present employment, or, judging by her extreme youth, in any employment at all. It also suggested that the Denbridges had not been long established and had few visitors.

To his question she said, "The mistress. Oh yes, she's at home—I mean, I'll see, if you'll just wait a wee minute." Then, turning in her tracks, she remembered the essential, "Who shall I say is calling?"

Faro took a chance. "A friend of her great-aunt, Mrs. Wishart from Fairmilehead."

Clara Denbridge appeared with the alacrity of one who had been lurking in the hall. She almost thrust the maid aside in her eagerness to confront Faro.

"Mrs. Wishart? Is there something wrong—is she ill?"

Her anxiety indicated the devotion that existed between them, and hastily he put her mind at rest.

"No, Mrs. Denbridge. She was in excellent health and spirits when I left her a little while ago."

Clara sighed. "Oh, that is good. I was afraid ..." Calm again, she waited, smiling politely.

"Detective Inspector Faro."

At the name, her hand flew to her lips. Dread filled her eyes as she whispered, "The Inspector who came to the convent. What—what is your business with me?"

Indicating the servant, Faro said, "Your maid holds the letter from Mrs. Wishart which explains the reason for my visit."

Hastily tearing open the envelope, Clara read the brief message. "You had better come in. Annie," she called in the direction of the kitchen. "Tea, if you please."

The parlour into which he was ushered continued the opulence suggested by the exterior. There seemed to be not one possession in that room which was any older than the young bride herself. Everything spoke of proud new ownership. Paintings, ornaments, silver, a rich but not necessarily matching assortment and some half-unwrapped parcels suggested recently acquired wedding presents. From the room itself came the lingering smells of paint, and the upholstery, cushions, sofas and carpets added that indefinable but not unpleasant odour of new wool. Antimacassars and curtains were of fine linen and even the furniture smelt as if the wood from which it was constructed was within living memory of a pine forest.

"Do please sit down, Inspector Faro."

As he did so, Clara swept aside two of the parcels and apologised for the untidiness. "We have only been installed in the house since we returned from honeymoon a month ago and, alas, the promised bookcases have failed to put in an appearance. My—my husband," she continued, a pretty blush declaring that the title was not yet well used by her, "my husband and I are both great readers."

Faro smiled. "Please don't apologise. I have just moved into my new home six months ago, and as both my stepson and I acquire a considerable number of books—he is a newly graduated doctor—we have similar problems. It is good of you to receive me, madam, at such a time, with such short notice."

"I presume your business is urgent, or else my great-aunt would not have sent you. She is most reliable in such matters. Is there something I can do for you? Is it about poor Lily Goldie?"

Faro explained that this was a routine visit on behalf of a relative of Lily Goldie. "After my first visit to Fairmilehead, I feared that there might have been some less agreeable reason for your disappearance."

"I behaved foolishly," interrupted Mrs. Denbridge, "and I apologise for putting you to so much trouble and speculation, Inspector. It did not occur to me that I would be inconveniencing anyone by my story. As my great-aunt will have told you, I felt it necessary at the time. Thankfully, that is no longer the case."

"I can only say that I am delighted for you."

Clara smiled. "I fear I can say little that will help you, which is a great shame, you having come all this way. Lily and I had the merest acquaintance. She was a naturally secretive person and I'm afraid she had to do a great deal more listening to my troubles at the time—I was too preoccupied with my imminent marriage to pay a great deal of attention to her activities."

"Our enquiries revealed that she had a sweetheart, a possible suitor," said Faro boldly, taking a chance. "Is that correct?"

"Why, yes. Such a tragedy. Did you not know?" she added in a hushed voice. "The poor unfortunate gentleman fell" (the word was heavily emphasised) "under a train."

Faro made sympathetic noises and handed her the photograph. "Do you recognise him?"

"Of course. That is a very good likeness of Mr. Ferris."

"You met him then?"

"A fleeting acquaintance. Hardly that, even, for Lily seemed very anxious to avoid a formal introduction," she added, with a touch of pique.

"For what reason, Mrs. Denbridge?"

Clara shrugged delicately. "Many young women do not care to introduce their suitors. It is a disagreeable and very impolite trait and it implies that they are afraid of competition. I mean—"

"I see exactly what you mean."

"Let us be frank, Inspector. For all her bragging of her conquests, Lily was not at all certain of Mr. Ferris's intentions. I knew she wished to be married but I gathered there was some impediment to this marriage. I remember her saying that she would have to work on him. 'I shall have to use all my woman's wiles if I am to get him to the altar, Clara.' I remember, those were her very words. However, one cannot repeat confidences of this nature." She put her hands together primly. "I do not in the least wish to talk ill of the dead, of Lily or poor Mr. Ferris, but I felt that, er, they had misbehaved."

"Misbehaved?"

"Yes, Inspector." Clara blushed. "As a married woman, I can only suggest that they had been on—er, terms of intimacy."

"For what reason?" Faro demanded sharply.

Clara shook her head. "I cannot say more, except that females sharing rooms know certain things about each other rather by instinct than any conversation, which, of course, would be highly improper."

"I do wish you had told me about this at the time."

"I was unmarried myself, and somewhat embarrassed. Besides," she added righteously, "ladies do not readily cast aspersions upon a colleague's character, especially when she has been murdered, Inspector. And as it seemed that her murderer—the wicked man Hymes—had been apprehended, I guessed that he had been responsible and that was the reason why he had murdered her."

"Responsible?"

"Yes, indeed, Inspector. You see . . ." She took a deep breath and continued. "I knew—by certain things—female things, after he died—that she suspected she was—er—in trouble."

"Do I take your meaning that Miss Goldie had reason to believe she was carrying a child?" said Faro bluntly.

"Yes," whispered Clara. "'His parents—someone—will have to pay for this little indiscretion.' Those were her very words, Inspector. You can imagine how difficult it was for me. Had I announced my suspicions, it would have been a blow to the convent's reputation and I would have been merely blackening her character even further, if my suspicions were not correct. Having suffered deeply from the scurrilous slanders of heartless people—I saw my own mother destroyed by such slanders, remember that, Inspector—I could never have forgiven myself. And it appears I would have been wrong, for there was no mention of what I suspected at the trial. Perhaps you can tell me, Inspector, was I correct?"