Quest for a Killer (5 page)

As I headed towards Princes Street where I was meeting Elma at Jenners, a great noise of clapping and cheering at the intersection of North Bridge and the Royal Mile indicated a group of clowns from the circus entertaining the passers-by. And, an incongruous addition, several nuns rattling tins as they circulated among the crowd.

I remembered that the Little Sisters of the Poor from the convent at St Leonard’s did a city collection around the time of the harvest festival. One of the nuns, Sister Clare, recognised me and hurried in my direction. As I put a coin in the box, she whispered urgently, ‘Mrs McQuinn, it is good to see you. The good Lord has answered my prayer. I was coming to call on you – will you be so kind as to look in at the convent as soon as you can?’

I was eager to hear more, she shook her head: ‘I can’t talk here. Please come…’ and was off again, fast disappearing among the folk watching the clowns.

However, meeting Elma that particular afternoon
momentarily pushed aside all thoughts of Sister Clare’s anxious face.

Elma loved shopping and it was part of this new friendship that I was included, my opinion sought on gloves and blouses and millinery, as well as lace negligees.

‘What do you think? Will Felix like this one – or will he think this too daring?’

I found all of this very odd indeed and yet another example of Elma’s poor observation skills: I had not the slightest interest in the latest fashions – as long as I was decently clad and warm with clothes adaptable for bicycling, I didn’t care.

We were to meet in the restaurant as usual; today I found her in animated conversation with a familiar face. My old school friend, Alice Bolton, who greeted me warmly.

‘So you two know each other!’ Elma exclaimed.

‘We do indeed.’ We exchanged glances and Alice said, ‘How are you, Rose?’

As we talked as women do, catching up with past events, I thought I intercepted an uneasy warning glance from Alice when Elma asked where and when we had last met.

I smiled as Alice said hastily that we met quite often for lunch. In fact, it was during our momentous and totally unexpected meeting four years ago, when I first arrived in Edinburgh, that the sinister tale of Alice Bolton’s troubled marriage provided the stepping stone for the career of Rose McQuinn, Lady Investigator, Discretion Guaranteed.

A polite argument over the bill ensued between the two women and at last Alice left us with promises to meet again soon.

Some time later, with purchases made to Elma’s satisfaction, we parted company outside the shop. The rain was lashing down and the doorman shepherding us under a vast umbrella hailed a cab and helped pack Elma’s multitude of boxes inside.

As she settled down, she said, ‘I am so looking forward to this evening. Felix is longing to meet you. Just the three of us, quite informal, so you can get to know each other. Such an awful day. Jump in and we will take you home.’

One look at the piled-up seat beside her suggested that it would be an uncomfortable journey, with little room in a hiring cab for an extra passenger.

However, as always with Elma, an argument followed and I insisted that I did not wish to return home as I had matters to attend to in the Pleasance. Despite her protests, I suspected that Elma was secretly relieved when she considered the hatboxes and all her latest acquisitions.

‘Until later, then,’ she called. ‘The carriage will come for you at seven o’clock.’

I retreated once more into the shelter of Jenners and remained there looking at the haberdashery counter, considering gifts I could afford: presents to send to Orkney in time for Christmas, for my sister Emily and my little nephew.

When I looked out again, the heavy shower had abated into a mere drizzle and with the umbrella, my
constant companion these days, I hurried homeward across Waverley Bridge, the High Street now silent, devoid of the clowns, the crowds chased away by the sudden rainstorm.

The nuns with their collecting tins had also taken shelter and I remembered once again Sister Clare’s anxious expression and her note of urgency.

My visits to the convent were rare indeed. I wasn’t Catholic but I received a special invitation when they had any fund-raising occasion for their orphans. The convent had a special place in my heart as it was also the orphanage which had taken in Danny McQuinn when he was brought across from Ireland by his uncle, the sole members of their family who had survived the Famine. The nuns had been very proud of the way Danny had turned out, clever and industrious, especially when he fulfilled that early promise, joined the city police and became Chief Inspector Faro’s sergeant, and much later, my husband.

Now the Little Sisters of the Poor were beneficiaries of my rarely updated wardrobe. I occasionally bought new clothes these days: although I cared not a fig for looking elegant, I realised the importance of first impressions – that a lady investigator should not only sound convincing but should look convincing too. No shabby shoes or frayed cloaks in this profession. Even my wild curls had to be trained into a semblance of good behaviour and confined within a bonnet.

The nuns were very grateful, especially as the discarded garments of a lady under five feet in height were eminently suitable for the older orphaned girls in their care.

It was the bane of my life that I could have passed for a little girl of twelve in a poor light, despite being in my mid thirties. Nevertheless, my professional abilities had given me confidence and I joined that legion of womankind who, never satisfied with what nature has seen fit to bestow on them, are forever bewailing their lot. I had it all first hand from my younger sister Emily, a prime example. Taller than me, she had yearned for my curls as I wrestled with that unruly mop, yearning for her long, black, straight hair and those extra inches, not to mention a shapely bosom.

I had my bundle ready, preparing to go across and call at the convent early next morning, realising they would be up and about from 6 a.m., when a knock at the kitchen door announced Sister Clare.

She was accompanied by a small, thin girl, at first glance little more than a child, wearing the grey uniform dress that indicated she was a novice. This was her probationary period in which she still had the opportunity to change her mind. She would not receive the black dress and veils of the nuns’ habit until she had taken her final vows, closing the door to become the bride of Christ, where only a few of the nuns privileged to run the orphanage were allowed to communicate with the outside world.

I invited them in, and as they sat down at the kitchen table and declined my offer of tea I noticed, after the somewhat wan greeting, that they looked pale and scared.

‘This is Marie Ann,’ said Sister Clare. ‘Please tell Mrs McQuinn what happened.’ As she was using sign
language I realised that the young girl was also deaf.

The girl spoke in a faint hoarse whisper, many of her words were lost and I had to ask her to repeat herself, much to her distress. As I listened and pieced together the story it seemed that several times, when she was working in the convent vegetable garden, she had observed a man looking very intently at her over the fence.

‘One evening, as it was growing dark…’ Pausing, she sighed deeply, her distress obvious, and Sister Clare said in a shocked voice, ‘He vaulted the fence.’

She stopped and closed her lips firmly, leaving me to consider the enormity of such action.

Marie Ann’s eyes filled with tears and, shaking her head, she darted an imploring look across to Sister Clare who sighed and continued the story.

‘Marie Ann was about to run indoors, quite terrified, but this man chased her – seized her arm, murmured words that she did not hear or understand. She was terrified– he sounded so savage and awful. He then put an arm around her and—’ she darted a shocked look at the young girl and whispered, ‘he attempted to kiss her.’

A dreadful pause followed as Sister Clare’s hands busily poured out this story for Marie Ann’s approval. The girl watched, her vigorous nods confirming the details.

‘She struggled free and rushed indoors. One of us caught her: she seemed about to faint with terror.’ Another significant pause, another shocked whisper. ‘Her dress was torn at the neck.’

A moan from Marie Ann.

‘We rushed out, of course, but the garden was empty—’

‘A moment, Sister,’ I interrupted. ‘What was this man like?’

This was translated by a flurry of hands. Sister Clare shook her head. ‘It was dusk and he wore a hooded cloak. She only saw he was a tall man, with, she thought, a badly scarred face.’

A scarred face, that would have been enough to frighten her, let alone being seized violently by a strange man, I thought. I asked Marie Ann, ‘He tried to kiss you?’

Sister Clare gave a little scream and averted her face; a hand against her mouth so that Marie Ann could not lip-read, she drew a deep breath. ‘That might have been imagination. Marie Ann comes from a troubled home.’ Lowering her head, a blush of embarrassment. ‘She was…er…interfered with, by her half-brother and her stepfather. She is very afraid of all men.’

I considered this piece of information. ‘Could Marie Ann not tell you what he was trying to say to her?’

Sister Clare shook her head. ‘We tried that, but she was too frightened, too distressed to understand. Just wanted to get away from him.’

‘As the presence of an intruder in the convent grounds is a serious matter,’ I said, ‘this information would have been very useful to the police.’

Sister Clare practically jumped at the word ‘police’, which seemed to hang in the air before us. A speedy translation for Marie Ann who looked ready to burst into tears.

They both stared at me. Had I suggested a visit from Lucifer himself they could not have looked more shocked and horrified.

A tricky situation indeed. And with no desire to make matters worse, I refrained from adding that the police were looking for a man wanted for the bank robbery.

I had no wish to elaborate on the two suicides.

‘If this was a serious assault, then you should have informed them immediately.’ I paused. ‘As you are no doubt aware, there have been serious incidents recently.’

Watching their expressions, I asked gently, ‘Why did you come to me? How did you think I could help?’

Sister Clare shook her head. ‘We had to think of the distress of the other sisters, having uniformed policemen wandering about, asking them embarrassing and intimate questions.’

‘Surely only Marie Ann is involved?’

‘No, Mrs McQuinn, when we mentioned it, it seems that others of the novices working in the gardens have also seen a man lurking about.’

‘The same man?’

‘They were not absolutely certain as he had only been seen from a distance.’

I wasn’t inclined to take that too seriously. In a place like the convent, where nothing more exciting than a missing shoe ever occurred, one girl’s terror and hysteria plus another’s imagination and even an innocent stranger seeking directions is transformed into a monster.

I looked at Marie Ann. Poor little waif, I had
sympathy with her. She was no taller than I and looked childlike with her close-cut fair curls. This was the first step of initiation, the female vanity of long beautiful hair was to be sacrificed.

Sister Clare was tight-lipped as she said, ‘The police would not do at all, Mrs McQuinn. Surely you can imagine, as a woman, the sort of indelicate matters that might be discussed with our young girls. We thought that a lady like yourself would be ideal to conduct a more discreet enquiry, one of your investigations that would not distress them.’

I wondered who had told them I was a private detective. Even in convents, it seemed, news got around.

Sister Clare had now turned her back towards Marie Ann who was effectively eliminated from the conversation.

She leant forward and whispered confidentially, ‘There is another matter, concerning those two girls who apparently took their own lives recently. This has not been mentioned and it is something you and the general public – as well as the police – might not be aware of.’

She sighed and shook her head. ‘Amy and Belle had been brought up as Catholics, indeed they still came to Mass occasionally. And as you know, suicide is strictly forbidden by our church.’

A moment while she let that sink in. ‘Brought up’ might indicate that they were lapsed Catholics. I had no idea if the Edinburgh City Police would consider this significant but it did throw a new clue into the matter.

Sister Clare took my silence as acceptance. ‘You will help us, Mrs McQuinn.’

I wasn’t at all sure what I could do to help but promised to give it some thought. They obviously considered this a foregone conclusion and were smilingly cheerful at the door and grateful when I thrust the bundle of clothes into Sister Clare’s hands.

Peeping into the bundle, she withdrew first my shabby cloak and beamed at me. Shaking it out and handing it to Marie Ann she said, ‘Here you are, this is perfect for you. Perfect for winter. You are always very good to us, Mrs McQuinn. God bless you for your kindness.’

She looked me up and down. ‘Marie Ann is exactly your own size, Mrs McQuinn. You are both so small and neat but the good Lord made good stuff in small bundles.’

I watched them walk down the road. A hooded man with a scarred face, two suicides imperilling their immortal souls if they were, or had been, good Catholics.

This was a new factor to discuss with Jack.

The sounds of the circus preparing for the day’s performance in Queen’s Park travelled across the hill. As I stood in Solomon’s Tower I thought about the sound from the circus, the short distance from the convent and from where I stood, and realised, perhaps for the first time, the significance of the fact that all these crimes had happened within Newington, a small suburb on the south side of the city.

And therefore, willing or no, I was part of it too. For the first time I felt vulnerable. Who was this stranger
who had threatened Marie Ann, hooded, scarred? And suddenly Arthur’s Seat took on a sinister aspect while I remembered those legends old as time itself.