Enter Second Murderer (3 page)

The lad had inherited his mother's beauty without her gentle nature. In childhood, he had exhibited a will of iron combined with a violent temper. A nasty, truculent child, difficult for anyone to love, let alone a prospective stepfather. From the beginning Vince had made evident his dislike and disgust at his mother's choice of husband—and Lizzie had made many excuses, certain that being born with the stigma of bastardy had been the cause of it all. For her lapse, Lizzie had not been made to suffer in Skye as she might have done in a more Calvinistic city environment. Islands had sympathy for girls who got into trouble, especially fifteen-year-old servants in the laird's house who were seduced, or, more often, found themselves helpless against what amounted to rape, by rich callous guests.

Since the death of Lizzie and their newborn son, he had needed Vince, as all that remained to him of his beloved wife.

From the unlikely spring of dislike and resentment, tolerance and friendship had sprung up between bereaved husband and son, as they sought forgetfulness in agreeable leisure activities, walking in the hills and canoeing on the River Forth. The only echoes of Vince's early rebellion shone forth in occasional lively and ill-timed student pranks, which gave his policeman stepfather a somewhat red face. But Faro was proud indeed of the boy he now regarded as his own son in every way except the accident of conception.

Having made his escape from Mrs. Brook, he retreated to his study upstairs, reproached by the loving message from Rose and Emily—saying that they had not had a letter from dear Papa for some time. Resolving to write immediately, he opened the other letter and drew out a head-and-shoulders photograph of a handsome young man: "To my lovely Lily, Ever your T."

The note enclosed was from the Mother Superior at the Convent of St. Anthony.

This photograph was found by one of the nuns when she was clearing out the room which had been occupied by the unfortunate Lily Goldie. It had presumably slipped down behind the skirting-board and had been overlooked during the police search. I realise that the case is closed but I thought you might like to add it to the unhappy girl's possessions which I understand are in police-keeping awaiting a claimant.

There had been no mention of "T" in the report on Lily Goldie's murder, of that he was certain. Was this new evidence in the case? With a sense of growing excitement, Faro carried the card to the window and was re-reading the letter from the Mother Superior when Vince's conversation with Mrs. Brook in the hall announced his imminent appearance.

"Good-day, Stepfather. Caught any criminals today?"

Faro smiled at the boy's usual greeting. "Not today, lad. I've just had a last interview with Hymes."

"New evidence?"

Faro shook his head. "No. Just the same old story, that he didn't murder Lily Goldie. I'm inclined to believe him, dammit."

Vince was silent for a moment. "You know my feelings, Stepfather. I think—although the good Doctor Kellar nearly had a fit when I suggested such a thing—I think that Lily Goldie was killed by the fall—doubtless she was pushed, and that scarf was tied around her neck, afterwards, to make it look like murder."

"That's precisely what Hymes maintains."

"Ah, but how do we prove it?"

"We can't, unless we produce a second murderer."

"Or unless our second murderer strikes again. Talking of which, the Pleasance Theatre are putting on
Macbeth
this week. Shall I get you a ticket?"

"I don't know that I'm strong enough to see the Immortal Bard murdered by amateurs just now."

Vince laughed. "Don't be such a snob, Stepfather. They are professional actors: Mr. Topaz Trelawney's Thespians. You've missed a very popular season and there are only two weeks left. You must see them, some of the actors are very good indeed, particularly the leading lady. She's an absolute stunner, probably Mrs. T," he added regretfully.

Faro smiled. His stepson had a penchant for actresses, but usually of the more frivolous variety.

"Oh, talking of 'T'—"

"What an outrageous pun, Stepfather."

"I mean the initial 'T'—have a look at this."

Faro handed him the photograph and the note.

"Good Lord, I know who this is."

"You do? Could this be our missing man—our second murderer?"

Vince shook his head. "The likeness flatters him, but I'd swear it's Timothy Ferris. He was in my year at medical school."

"Did he know Lily?"

"Oh yes, indeed. He met her in January when we all went skating together on Duddingston Loch. He was quite infatuated—"

"A missing suitor, by God. Now we're getting somewhere," said Faro excitedly.

"Only on the road that leads to the grave," said Vince solemnly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Tim is dead, Stepfather. By his own hand. Committed suicide, walked under a railway train."

Faro remembered vaguely the case as just another of the tragic suicides that were encountered almost every day at the Central Office, routine investigations in which he wasn't concerned. Except to thank God it wasn't his son—or stepson—that had been driven to such an end. The association with Lily Goldie put the matter of Timothy Ferris into new perspective. But the time-factor was wrong.

Vince nodded. "Yes, he died two weeks before Lily's murder. Remember, I told you? He failed his last qualifying exams and was thrown out at the beginning of the term. He wasn't a particular friend of mine, but rumour had it that he was deeply involved with some girl who was leading him on." And, picking up the photograph, "That would fit the character of Lily."

"What about his family?"

"Didn't have any. He was an orphan. However, he always had plenty of cash to spend on wine and gambling. Bit of a waster, was Tim. And there was a rumour of some rich relative supporting him through medical school."

"I seem to remember you went to the funeral?"

A look of pain crossed Vince's face. "It was at Greyfriars, Stepfather," he said, trying to sound casual as for a moment they fell silent, remembering that other beloved grave, the mother and wife who was gone from them. "I steeled myself," Vince continued. "Matter of courtesy, you know, from his year, when he had no relatives. We were the only mourners. No girls that I noticed. And I would have remembered Lily Goldie, especially as I had to assist at the post-mortem, one of my first cases," he added with a shudder. "Bad enough having to deal with the corpse of a total stranger, but to encounter a pretty girl one has met before, even on the slightest acquaintance ... I had nightmares."

"Tell me again—about the postmortem."

"Nothing much to tell—a lot of bruising, a broken wrist and pelvis, and contusions which would be the case for anyone falling from a steep crag—either falling naturally or grappling with an assailant wouldn't make much difference by the time she reached ground-level. Those marks about her neck were very different from what you'd expect of a labourer's strong hands."

"You suspected that the murderer followed her down to. . . ?"

"Exactly. And tied the scarf about her neck afterwards to make it look like Hymes's work. Unfortunately Doctor Kellar is a pig-headed gentleman and he laughed my idea to scorn. 'Enthusiastic young amateur doctors mustn't let their personal interest in cases take precedence over good sense. One must learn to be dispassionate.'

"I think he rather gauged by my reactions—since I was very sick at one point—that I had been infatuated with her." Vince smiled grimly. "Poor Lily, in life we had the most superficial acquaintance which would hardly have justified the intimacy of a post-mortem. Ironically, I found myself remembering her effect on the more susceptible of my year. Not that she wanted penniless students, she had her sights set well above the likes of us."

He looked at Faro thoughtfully. "You know, her tragedy was being born in the wrong age. She should have been a Nell Gwynn or a Pompadour, a courtesan, who knows no allegiance except to her own ambition. She must have been desperate indeed to seek employment in a convent. By the way, I've kept all the newspaper accounts about Hymes that you wanted."

From behind the clock on the mantelpiece, Vince withdrew a small sheaf of newsprint. "Let's see. 'GRUESOME CONVENT MURDERS'," he read in mock sepulchral tones. "'Chills of horror are being experienced in the respectable modern Edinburgh environs of Newington and Grange where the brutal murders of two innocent female victims from the Catholic Orphanage of St. Anthony have thrown a blight of fear and foreboding over sisters and pupils alike at the school whose activities are seriously affected.'" He paused before continuing. "'Sufferings of extreme ill-health prevented the well-known and exceedingly brilliant Detective Inspector Faro from solving these interesting and diabolically wicked crimes.'"

"Give it here—it doesn't say that."

"Well, it should."

"This one solved itself—thanks to Hymes's confession." Faro sighed, with a shake of his head. "Nothing more to do."

Vince regarded him narrowly, very much the doctor. "Feeling all right today, Stepfather? No more nasty griping pains? Appetite getting better?"

"I'm still a bit shaky, more easily tired than I should be, but with a kind of typhus that isn't surprising."

Vince scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "I still wonder, you know."

"Wonder?"

"Yes. About your illness. I think you were deliberately poisoned." Even when Patrick Hymes gave himself up, Vince stoutly defended his theory of a sinister plot to poison his stepfather. "I must say, though, you're looking better every day. Still rather too thin, I fear. By the way, I met Constable McQuinn in Rutherford's howff—he was very solicitous about your health.When were you coming back? Were you fully recovered? Etcetera, etcetera."

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."