Quest for a Killer (10 page)

The Café Royal was crowded and, as this had been a sudden decision, there was no time to book a table. It looked as if we would be turned away when Vince was hailed by a gentleman who seemed delighted to see him and, obviously aware of the situation, insisted that we share a table with his wife and himself.

This new acquaintance of my stepbrother’s was introduced as Mr Hengel, the owner of the circus. And Mr Hengel was something of a surprise, very different in appearance from the flamboyant ringmaster. The luxurious moustache he wore then was obviously false and the shining silk top hat effectively concealed a shiny bald head. He also seemed to have shrunk somewhat, perhaps the black high boots and riding trousers added an illusion of height.

A further surprise was Mrs Hengel, also known as the clairvoyant Seraphina. In her everyday clothes she also seemed diminished, despite the luxurious fur coat: plain of countenance, rather plump and certainly
middle-aged
, considerably older than the exotic lady hovering
dramatically over the crystal bowl with the canary who picked out paper fortunes for a small sum.

Perhaps they both preferred to be incognito and hoped not to be recognised in their real-life roles.

The conversation was carefully hedged with the circus visit to Balmoral where it seemed Vince had been on hand in his physician capacity to deal with one of Mrs Hengel’s severe headaches, their mysterious cause an overindulgence in Seraphina’s activities, with too many eager clients anxious to know what the future held for them.

I gathered from the drift of the conversation that this odd state of affairs vaguely hinted that her clairvoyant personality as Seraphina was capable of taking her over and causing physical distress.

Whatever my feelings, I had to take into the equation of disbelief a deerhound who seemed to understand human minds and human motives, and who had a strange telepathic contact when I was in danger. Maybe Seraphina knew the answer to that as well.

However, I had more important matters in hand. This unexpected meeting with the Hengels suggested that I should put my mind towards diverting the conversation into a topic that might further my own, now urgent, investigation into the activities of the clowns, and of Joey in particular.

A small silence between soup and the main course provided the opportunity to say how much I enjoyed the clowns, how skilled they were and so forth.

My remarks were addressed to Mrs Hengel, a source of valuable information and, as it turned out, quite
different from her Seraphina persona. She glanced occasionally at Vince and her husband sitting opposite, ignoring us both, engrossed in discussing the latest developments in medical research, which, I learnt later from Vince, was Mr Hengel’s particular obsession.

Mrs Hengel, however, seemed eager to seize the chance of a gossip with another female. ‘His great ambition was to have become a doctor, poor chap, but alas, it was out of the question, a dream only, for his impoverished family had neither the understanding nor the means to afford such a luxury, so he followed them into circus life.’

She asked where I lived and her eyes brightened. ‘Oh, that lovely old Tower. It intrigues me and I’ve often wondered who lived there. You are fortunate. It must be lovely inside,’ she added wistfully and I took the hint of a hoped-for invitation.

‘Oh, thank you, Mrs McQuinn. I would dearly love to visit you.’

‘Do you live at the circus?’ I asked.

She laughed. ‘Oh no, we do like our comfort and we are far too old for the rigours of a caravan, although Mr Hengel still likes to be as near the circus as possible in case of emergencies, you know. As a matter of fact, we are living close by, just off Dalkeith Road, in the Mayfield area. I expect you know it.’

‘I do indeed. I used to live in Sheridan Place.’

‘Really? Mr Wood, the gentleman who owns a very nice boarding house, obliges some of our lads with accommodation. Number 9, I think it is.’

‘And that is exactly where I was brought up. My
mother died when I was quite young, so my sister and I stayed with our grandmother in Orkney, in Kirkwall, and came home for the holidays to be with Pappa—’

I was about to tell her about my illustrious father when she interrupted with an excited exclamation. ‘Kirkwall! Well, I never! What a coincidence.’ Her eyes lit up again. ‘What a small world it is indeed that we live in,’ and beaming at me, ‘my ma came from Orkney.’

She paused, then added in a whisper. ‘It is from her I have inherited my ability to tell the future; she had it and her grandmother too.’ A small shrug and she added warily, with a glance across the table at her husband, who seemed to have forgotten our existence and remained deep in conversation with Vince, ‘The story was that we came from the selkies,’ she murmured in tones of awe.

I smiled. ‘We have that family tradition. Seems very popular in Orkney to be related to the selkie folk.’

I wasn’t prepared to go into the details of my
great-grandmother
Sibella who I had met for the first time two years earlier. Past her hundredth birthday, with an intriguing background of mystery, her existence was a well-kept family secret, almost, one might say, a selkie in the cupboard.

Mrs Hengel said, ‘May I?’ And taking my hand, she turned it palm upwards. Her polite smile disappeared, her face changed and she looked worried, biting her lip.

What did she see there? But before I had a chance to question her, Mr Hengel leant across the table and asked, ‘Ready to go, my love?’

Although we had hardly exchanged more than a polite greeting, he said, ‘An unexpected pleasure to meet you, Mrs McQuinn.’

As he turned his attention to Vince again and an argument over who should pay the bill, Mrs Hengel stood up and smiled wryly, glanced at the two men. With almost an apology for their lack of attention to us during the meal, she said, ‘Mr Hengel thinks highly of Dr Laurie.’

Now I would never know what she had seen in my hand, as she went on, ‘My husband so loves reading books, mostly about strange illnesses – I can’t even pronounce their names,’ she laughed.

A waiter hovered. Vince was insisting that the bill was his, Hengel arguing not at all, that we were his guests.

Mrs Hengel sighed. ‘I am so sorry, Mrs McQuinn, I have so enjoyed our conversation,’ and in a whisper, ‘you have a very interesting lifeline.’

Although I was naturally curious, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by saying that I didn’t believe in such things. Maybe I had imagined that strange look, perhaps it was only concentration – or indigestion.

We were being ushered into our cloaks and I realised that I had eaten more than my normal spartan diet and drunk considerably more wine than I should to retain a clear head.

As we left, I declined to accompany the Hengels in a carriage back to Queen’s Park. At my side Vince announced that he must look into the hotel to see if there were any messages and asked if I would accompany him.

The answer was to take his arm as I was in desperate need of fresh air, and there was plenty of it waiting for us as we crossed the short distance over Princes Street.

Vince, holding on to me very firmly, announced that he intended to look into the hospital and have a look at Felix Miles Rice tomorrow.

In the hotel reception, there was a message awaiting him. I guessed the contents as he read it and groaned. ‘Sorry, Rose, this is going to be a short visit after all. The train will be leaving for London in a couple of hours. Dammit, I had hoped for a couple of days. No chance to see Miles Rice, either, as I promised your friend.’

To alleviate his disappointment I told him that it was unlikely he would have been allowed to ‘see’ the patient anyway.

‘I doubt if even your royal connection would have made the slightest difference as he is being kept under strict police surveillance until he regains consciousness – if ever.’

I followed him upstairs and took a seat by the bow window. Now I realised why he was tempted to stay in such a luxurious suite with its stunning views over the topography of Edinburgh, Salisbury Crags, and Arthur’s Seat. The view was dominated by the castle, the station far below, with its threads of smoke indicating trains travelling back and forth between the north of Scotland and the far south of England and, nearer at hand, the busy traffic of carriages rattling up and down over Waverley Bridge from Princes Street to the fashionable suburbs.

Meanwhile Vince packed his valise and speculated on the reasons for the police vigilance.

‘Either he will reveal all or they are expecting the killer to put in an appearance and finish him off.’

I agreed but said it was a bit hard on Elma being also excluded.

Vince shrugged. ‘I expect they have their reasons, not for us to reason why.’

I had decided to stay and see him off at the station, those last two hours becoming increasingly precious. It was one of those lovely rare autumn days when the weather forgets the calendar and indulges in a bout of frivolity, pretending that it is still summer, warm and calm.

With none of those ill-famed shrill east winds blowing up Waverley Steps, we strolled into Princes Street Gardens, enjoying a seat in the blissful sunshine which cleared my head of the overindulgent lunch, before returning to the hotel for a light refreshment. In my case, a much needed refreshing pot of tea while Vince indulged in a sandwich and ordered something considerably stronger to drink.

The clocks could not stop their relentless progress, all too soon the two hours were over and it was time for yet another parting, down in the lift to the station where the royal train purred beside an empty platform in readiness to leave for London.

‘Olivia and the children will be glad to see you again,’ I said.

He smiled sadly. ‘I wish you were coming with me, Rose.’

Although I agreed, it was a bit of a lie. I had little desire to go down to England. Edinburgh was so complete: it had food and drink and all I needed. I loved my weird little tower, safe and secure with Thane to walk the hill by day and, like an ordinary domestic pet, have him lie at my fireside in the evening.

In truth I had little desire for travel these days. Perhaps it had been cleared out of my system by those years of Arizona, with Danny working for Pinkerton’s Detective Agency. No real home, only hazardous, enforced stays in pioneering shack towns with their squalor and their ever-attendant dangers. Gunfights in the streets and scenes of sudden death and violence every night as the bars closed and threw out their customers, mostly drunk cowhands.

Yes, that had been more than enough, I decided, for one lifetime.

As the train steamed out, I felt suddenly bereft, with so much still to tell Vince and not the least idea when we would meet again, at the mercy of another short stay of the royal train.

His last words had been: ‘That was a splendid lunch with the Hengels. An interesting couple and you ladies got along well, lots of girlish confidences, eh?’ He laughed.

I refrained from mentioning that, as we were receiving our cloaks, Mrs Hengel looked around sharply as if in danger of being overheard and, observing her husband and Vince at a little distance summoning a carriage, she had taken my hand and whispered, ‘May I come and see you tomorrow if that is convenient? It is very important.’

Mrs Hengel’s request sounded anxious, a note of urgency I was used to receiving from a prospective client. Could it be just curiosity about Solomon’s Tower or had she some domestic crisis that required the urgent services of a private detective?

If that was so, there was another mystery. How had she heard about me? Although I was becoming quite well known in Edinburgh, it seemed odd that my reputation had extended to a travelling circus.

I had told Vince about the coincidence of Sheridan Place as we sat in Princes Street Gardens. That number 9 was now a boarding house, patronised by the circus performers, but Vince did not seem particularly impressed.

Sadly, I guessed that for him it was all part of a past so alien to his present life in St James that he had lost all interest in what had been our home with Pappa and his debut as a family doctor.

And quite suddenly, as I walked towards the Pleasance, I stopped in my tracks. There were urgent reasons for visiting Sheridan Place and seeing what the new owner was like. The circus connection might be important, especially as I suspected that one of the clowns might be the killer of the two girls and the bank clerk.

I also remembered Jack’s information: it had been the scene of a recent break-in and had some connection with a fraud he was investigating, facts that I had not passed on to Vince.

My new plan cast all thoughts of Mrs Hengel’s problems aside. As I walked the once familiar streets towards Newington, it seemed strange indeed to be in the area which held so many memories of long ago. I had not set foot in Sheridan Place since the day of my arrival in Edinburgh, when I found, instead of my welcome home with Vince and family in residence greeting me with open arms, only shuttered windows and a For Sale notice in the overgrown garden.

At first glance nothing in the handsome Georgian villas had changed beyond the trees having grown higher in the past decade, and in many cases threatening to darken the outlook from the lower windows.

Considering a suitable excuse for my visit, I had my story all prepared. As Mr Wood opened the door, I had assumed my disguise, my role this time a searcher for board and lodging for a visiting friend, a young lady. A necessary precaution to cover the unlikely possibility that I might be recognised as a former resident.

Mr Wood was a well-spoken, very ordinary but respectable-looking gentleman in his fifties and did not, at first glance, suggest the fraudster Jack was interested in.

He bowed me into the hall and while he consulted his register I looked around and discovered to my delight few visible changes since Vince had left, other than new carpets. From the stair landing, a sight so well remembered and dear to my heart, the old familiar stained-glass window of Scotland’s heroes that Pappa was so proud of. Wallace and Bruce, bold warriors flourishing warlike swords. How that sight had impressed my young days and I had felt an enormous
pride in the personal possession of such heroes.

A sound on the stairs and I stood aside to allow four gentlemen, presumably the present boarders, to rush downstairs. They bowed, murmured apologies. I stepped back to let them pass with no time for careful scrutiny. A rapid glance took in that one was young, little more than a schoolboy, the other three older, perhaps members of one family in Edinburgh on holiday.

As the door closed on them Mr Wood looked up from his register and said, ‘I do have one single room at present. How long would the young lady require it?’

I said I wasn’t quite sure, which was true enough, and he continued, ‘It is quite small for a lady. There may be a more congenial room on offer later…’

Presumably a second glance had confirmed my respectability as he warned, ‘The facilities of the WC will have to be shared…’ And taking my silence for doubts about the propriety, he added hurriedly, ‘My present guests are most respectable fellows, excellent references, of course. You probably don’t recognise them, miss, they are clowns from the circus. All four of them very ordinary, nice chaps, but their ordinariness conceals amazing talents as conjurers, equestrians, jugglers and acrobats.’ He was obviously proud to have attracted such distinguished boarders.

I told him I had seen them. ‘But there were five. Joey, their leader, is he not with them?’

That was a disappointment, I thought, as Mr Wood shook his head and said, ‘I am not acquainted with the gentleman; no doubt he is residing elsewhere or staying with friends.’

With a smile and warming to his theme he continued, ‘I cannot praise the circus people too highly. They are fine folk and get along very well with our residents, especially as they return to Edinburgh year after year, and many establish lasting friendships.’

Which I thought is just the difference between the suburbs: in Newington, maybe, but unlikely among the residents of the Grange.

However, if Joey was a wanted man privacy was a special need and he would have found a safe house among his own criminal fraternity. Promising Mr Wood that I would consult my friend and let him know, on my way home, I remembered again Mrs Hengel’s extraordinary request. I was not kept in suspense very long for she arrived the next morning.

A tap on the kitchen door and there she was. ‘I took the short cut across the hill, such a lovely morning for a walk.’

And as I invited her to take a seat, she said, ‘I am afraid this early meeting may have taken you by surprise.’

‘Not at all.’ And in my best businesslike manner, ‘Now, how can I help you?’

She shook her head and said gently, ‘It is yourself, Mrs McQuinn, who is in need of
my
help.’ Again that intent stare. ‘I saw something in your hand – and I knew that I must tell you immediately: it is very close and, in your own interest, I knew there was no time to waste.’

She paused breathlessly and regarded me sadly. ‘I can tell by your expression that you are an unbeliever
but no matter, that often is the case.’ Another pause, a frown, and she added, ‘You have certain psychic abilities of which you are maybe unaware.’

All very flattering but I was disappointed. If a private fortune-telling session was what she had in mind, when I was expecting and hoping for a new client and an absorbing investigation, then she was in for a disappointment.

‘You are a remarkable person, Mrs McQuinn. You have travelled extensively, and in doing so, suffered a great deal in your life beyond these shores across the oceans.’

A good guess, I decided cynically. She was suddenly interrupted as Thane came over and positioned himself bolt upright at my side, instead of lying prone at my feet as usual. His eyes were fixed on Mrs Hengel with an unmoving stare, in an attitude of listening intently.

Quite unaware of this attitude, which only I observed, Mrs Hengel smiled. ‘That is a remarkable dog, Mrs McQuinn.’

Leaning over she patted his head. He allowed her to do so, but still sat unmoving, statue-like; the hound awaiting instructions.

Mrs Hengel sighed. ‘I love animals – all of them, wild or tamed. Mr Hengel and I have no children of our own and animals are the solace that has taken their place. I love the horses in particular. When I was young and slim,’ she added, ‘I was the main equestrienne act.’ A little self-deprecating shrug. ‘Very hard to believe now that I had once such energy and daring. That was how I met my husband. I had a very bad fall and the injury left me unable to have a child.’ 

She paused. ‘Do you have children, Mrs McQuinn?’

‘I had a baby son once, but he died of a fever. I hardly had time to know him.’

I felt the tears ready to well up, as they did unfailingly, no matter how much time elapsed since that terrible day.

‘The good Lord gives and takes away,’ she said. ‘But when he takes away he often gives us something to replace what we have lost. In my case it was the discovery that I had psychic powers, a gift to help others.’ She gave a faint smile. ‘As you have undoubtedly already discovered that you have some power to help others.’

I looked at her sharply. She did not know that I was a private detective unless someone had told her. There had been no mention of this fact and it had been merely my assumption that she was seeking my professional services. Now I thought of my logbook full of investigations where I had been instrumental in solving so many problems and curing the sickness brought about by fraud and betrayals in my clients’ lives.

Again patting Thane she looked up and said, ‘How did you acquire such a lovely animal? One rarely sees deerhounds in towns these days. They belong in great estates – and ancient tapestries.’

So I told her briefly about our encounter on the hill, how I thought he was lost but seemed in such good condition that I suspected he had come from a former circus in Queen’s Park at that time.

‘They denied all knowledge of him. But it seemed that he had come from somewhere on Arthur’s Seat.’

She nodded. ‘No doubt one of the deerhounds of King Arthur and his knights.’

I was surprised by her knowledge of that improbable legend, as she went on, ‘Oh yes, I have heard strange tales about Arthur’s Seat, about ghosts and magic.’ Pausing, she sighed. ‘I do so love our visits here: there is something of the other world about this place, about the hill out there, don’t you think?’

Without awaiting my reply, she looked towards the window. ‘And this tower, too, this beautiful place where you live looks as if it has been here for ever, grown out of the extinct volcano.’

‘How extraordinary. Do you know a strange thing? That was exactly what I felt the first time I saw it.’

She smiled. ‘They say great minds think alike, and I think our minds – although perhaps not in that category, my dear – they function and derive their being from the same source common to mystics.’

There was nothing I could say to that, except that her observation so near to my own was faintly unnerving, as was Thane’s continued alert behaviour.

‘The Tower needs a lot of work,’ I said apologetically, dragging the conversation back to normal, domestically conscious of untidy corners, the needed urgent application of a duster and mop.

She shook her head gravely. ‘That is only the surface. Don’t let it trouble you. Underneath nothing changes, the spirit of the house is unperturbed; as long as it knows it has our love it will protect us.’

Thane was still watching us eagerly, gazing from one to the other as if closely following our conversation.

‘And so you never discovered where he came from. A remarkable story for a remarkable dog. But hardly surprising in a place full of magic like Arthur’s Seat, which has always had secrets and will never give them up. I doubt if you will ever find out more about Thane than he is prepared to let you know.’

As she talked, she smiled at Thane, clearly fascinated by him, while he continued to regard her in that curious way of his, mouth slightly open as if smiling. It was odd, watching these two, as if they understood each other perfectly.

‘He is your protection, Mrs McQuinn, part of the mystery of where your destiny has led you.’

As she spoke she took my hand, turned it over and, studying it frowning, she sighed. ‘When we met I knew there was something that I had to tell you – to warn you of danger ahead. I guessed that you were a widow, and alas, I can see no tall, dark, handsome stranger coming into your life to carry you off.’

I already knew that, certain now that my handsome Danny was dead, as she continued, ‘There is just a shadow, a dream of which you must beware; evil forces you are unaware of, lies disguised as truth, hate disguised as love. You are being manipulated, pulled in the wrong direction. That is all I know, it isn’t much, but the main thing is that you must move with extreme caution.’

She sighed again. ‘I just wish I could see it all clearly to advise you in chapter and verse. All I am acutely aware of is the danger that surrounds you. Danger, false hopes and uncertainties.’

And leaning over, she made a fist of my hand, eyes closed as if praying; she held it lightly for a moment. Then smiling she rose to her feet, suddenly practical.

‘Now I must leave you for there is much to prepare down the road.’

As if aware that she had given me plenty to think about, she smiled. ‘You are wondering if what I have told you will happen, or if it is just a wild guess.’ She shook her head. ‘In your case, I felt certain I was seeing into the future. It isn’t always so. Many times young girls come hoping I will see a handsome husband and a thousand a year.’ She paused. ‘Seems an incredible fortune to them. And they want to know how many children and what the future holds. The older ladies are more practical, mostly concerned with family matters, who will wed among their children and so forth, and finances, if riches are coming their way and if they will have a long life. I aim to be honest. Usually there isn’t anything of importance I can see and I have to be vague with those promises, so as not to disappoint them and make them feel they have wasted their money.’

She took my face between her hands, looked deeply into my eyes. ‘But when we met something else took over, a sense of compulsion. You must take great care, Mrs McQuinn. That’s my final word. Now Ed will be wondering what has happened to me and Seraphina. Takes a little longer to prepare for the afternoon sessions these days…’ she laughed lightly, ‘the wig and the greasepaint.’

Smiling, she added, ‘I hope we shall meet again. If
you need me, you know where I am to be found. And I shall not require a consultation fee: knowing I have warned you is all the repayment I need, more than enough. And the opportunity to see this lovely house.’

The wistful hint was irresistible. ‘Let me show you the rest of it on your way out. It will only take minutes.’

As we walked through the great hall towards the stone spiral staircase, she clasped her hands in delight. ‘What a superb room, those wonderful tapestries – I am so glad to see that ugly progress has not overtaken and destroyed all vestiges of those original stone walls. A quite magnificent fireplace too.’

Very conscious of the massive oak table and the worn tapestry on chairs, as well as an abundance of dust motes caught by the sunshine streaming in through the narrow windows, I said, ‘So visitors react, but alas, it is too large to heat comfortably.’

Laughing, she narrowed her eyes, and ignoring the presence of the table’s solitary occupant, the typewriting machine under its cover, she said, ‘I believe you, but I can see days long ago, when this hall was filled with a laird’s family and retainers, great fires, great tables of food.’ She sniffed the air. ‘Ah yes, venison roasting on that fire.’