Quest for a Killer (6 page)

I looked at Thane, happy at my side. Thane, whose mysterious appearance in my life four years ago had never been properly explained. I sighed; only he knew what was happening up there far above our heads, what strange hiding places and secret caves had existed long before man appeared to put down roots and live out his days on the slope of an extinct volcano.

Before the twentieth century the marks of the medieval monks’ ancient agriculture across the hillside were still clearly visible at sunrise and sunset, and their names remained with the shadows of the runrigs, despite all the progress of man.

If only Thane could speak, I thought yet again. How far back did his own strange history go? What were his origins? How had he evolved so complete, so neat and tidy to come to my door one day and set himself up as my rescuer, my protector, to whom I owed my life more than once? That could have been coincidence, but several times my logbook recorded cases where I had taken the wrong turning and become the hunted instead of the hunter.

I patted his head and he rewarded me with a pleased look. But he could still disappear, be absorbed back into these wild, lofty heights for lengthy periods, which I had learnt to accept, knowing that he would always return.

Sometimes he seemed able to exist without any food from me. This was once a cause of constant concern,
until common sense told me that, although acclimatised to and accepting domestic life, he was still a hunter, a killer of small animals.

At least when the dark days arrived he was always back at the Tower by nightfall, much to my relief: having him at my side as the first storms of autumn shrilled across the hill was a comfort. Fallen leaves and debris thrown up against the windows could sound alarmingly like alien footsteps.

I pushed aside these thoughts of Thane, the mystery I would never solve. Standing there at my kitchen door, to the west, hidden by trees, the convent and its grounds; eastwards, the horizons held Edinburgh’s spires, the smoking chimneys to St Leonard’s and the Pleasance with their grim tenements. And in between, the Innocent Railway with its daily trains, steaming their way back and forth to Musselburgh.

Just out of sight, down the road, the Palace of Holyroodhouse, the Queen’s residence, with the circus established in the area known as the Queen’s Park for a short season. A short season which had heralded, by coincidence or design, an outbreak of violence and mysterious death. Was it coincidence that all these landmarks close to each other were also linked with the tinkers’ encampment with its gaily coloured caravans?

It would seem even to the least suspicious mind that, if Jack’s theory was right, then either circus or tinkers might well be providing refuge for a killer.

I decided to set off for the tenement where the girls had died. A crumbling ruin among those marked down by the city developers for demolition to be replaced by more modern apartments.

Two hundred years ago, long before the wealthy of Edinburgh had moved on to build their splendid houses in the New Town, these high tenements were already warrens built without thought of style or comfort or hope of luxury, merely to herd together as many human souls into as little breathing space as possible to keep them alive.

After all, this section of humanity was not intended for comfort or luxury. Such bonuses in life would only make working people slothful and turn their families soft, thus spoiling their efficiency as human machines, provided by the good Lord’s bountiful grace to keep railways and canals in order, and to prosper their betters by providing a marked increase in their stocks and shares.

If the tall lands before me, and many well out
of sight and conveniently overlooked, were soulless monstrosities, the reason was that it had never occurred to the builders that their wretched inhabitants had souls to destroy. As the decades passed, such properties lacked even the dignity of growing seedy-looking and the passing years did nothing to mellow the miserable conditions.

Where occupants struggled to raise vast families in one room, every drop of water had to be carried up and downstairs from a water main two hundred yards away, until ten years ago. Beds to make the night hours easier were most often crude mattresses thrown down on the floor, the moderately house-proud grateful for a ragged carpet from which all pattern had long since vanished, plus a few broken-down chairs and a rickety table.

Both girls, I knew from Jack, belonged in that peripheral army of servants and factory workers taking employment, however transient, that guaranteed enough money to survive. Their bolder sisters walked the streets of Edinburgh and sold their bodies instead.

Amy Bland occupied flat 6, Belle Sanders flat 5. A dignified description of what was one room, with a bed recess, kitchen sink and shelved cupboard known as an Edinburgh press. On the landing a shared lavatory for six tenants; in the absence of a nearby drying green in that overcrowded area, each flat was provided with indoor laundry facilities: a series of wooden lathes linked to the ceiling by a pulley. Sadly, this novel innovation assisted the two girls in their suicides, if such they were.

The ground floor of number 64 was occupied by a shop with the fanciful name of pawnbroker. Although his dubious connections were keenly observed by the police as a possible fence for stolen goods, he did a considerable trade as a rag-and-bone merchant, a valuable and much frequented addition to this sad poverty-stricken community.

The neighbour who had returned drunk lived in flat 2. A widow with four tiny children resided in flat 3 – presumably the kindly neighbour who could be dismissed from the enquiries as a possible suspect but might have helpful information.

Number 4 was unoccupied, utterly derelict after a burst water main, so that, too, could be eliminated.

As I toiled up the worn stone stair, the bright day outside vanished under a miasma of poverty, children crying and a darkness that I suspected took little heed of daylight. There was a feeling of hopelessness, of inevitability which must have struck anguish into any tenant reduced to living in such poverty, and I spared a thought for the widow woman with her small children and what the future might hold for them.

I arrived at number 6 rather breathless, knocked on the door and expected to find it empty. It was opened by a young woman, carrying a large bundle, her expression harassed and impatient.

‘I’m making some enquiries—’ I began.

Obviously in a hurry to leave she gasped out, ‘You’ve got here just in time. If it’s this place you’re wanting.’ My respectable appearance had not made an impression as, looking doubtfully at the bare
walls, she added, ‘You’ll need to see the landlord.’

And deciding that further explanation was necessary, she went on, ‘I’m Amy’s sister and the police told me I could take anything I liked as they didn’t need anymore for evidence. I’m not going far, just down the stairs to Joe’s shop. There’s nothing in here for me, nothing I want.’ And perhaps aware that I looked moderately prosperous, she frowned suspiciously. ‘Were you a friend of hers?’

I had a sudden inspiration. ‘The nuns at the convent asked me to call regarding a Requiem Mass.’

She looked at me wide-eyed and laughed. ‘For Amy?’

‘She was Catholic, I gather.’

‘Aye, baptised and all – we both were. But it’s many a long day since I set foot in that church. My man was staunch Kirk, wouldna’ be doing with all that popish nonsense. I canna be much help to you. Amy and I werena’ friends, too many years between us, nothing in common and I live way out Liberton way. She never wanted me to get married and didna’ like my man much.’ She sighed. ‘He’s dead now, God rest him.’

Her statement didn’t encourage me to ask her whereabouts at the time her sister died. ‘Can you think of any reason for…for…’ I faltered deliberately.

‘Why she topped herself, you mean? Florrie downstairs – her with all them noisy bairns – tells me she was getting married. Married, well now. I’d never been told about that either – never showed much interest in lads, bit of a surprise that – but she might have invited me to the wedding, as her only kin,’ she
added, her bitter tone hinting that this was the worst cut of all. ‘This lad she was marrying has never been to see me to offer sympathy either.’

‘I understand that his ship is due to arrive in Leith.’

‘Is that so, now?’ She sounded mildly placated so I asked, ‘Would you by any chance know where I can get his address?’

She shook her head.

‘Were there any letters from him when you were clearing up?’

‘I dare say there were, but didna’ bother to read them like, none of my business. Just put them all in the fire. All except this.’ And putting her hand into the bundle, she produced a framed photograph of two girls which I presumed were herself and Amy.

‘Not me,’ she laughed. ‘That’s her with her chum Belle, they were always very close. Thought more of her than any of her own family,’ she added, thrusting the photo back into the bundle. ‘The frame might be worth a penny or two.’

That seemed a little heartless, and had I arrived earlier, those letters she was destroying might have contained some valuable information. Not that it would be any help in finding out the truth about Amy’s death and I realised that, as an interview, this conversation was going nowhere. Except for one vital piece of evidence. That Amy, because of her religion, was unlikely to have taken her own life.

I trailed down to the next floor, the screeching inside indicating that this was where Amy’s friendly neighbour lived. The door was opened by a harassed young
woman, holding a babe in arms and with two small children clinging to her skirts, which they were finding handy to wipe their running noses.

‘Hello.’ I smiled and gave the prepared story I had given Amy’s sister.

‘Oh, Amy would have wanted that, very devout she was. Didn’t go to Mass as much as she would have liked, but she was a good Catholic. Lots of holy pictures and the Sacred Heart on the wall…’

I presumed they were in the bundle on its way downstairs to the pawnbroker.

‘Are you Catholic?’ I asked,

‘Me? No. But I didna’ hold that against her. Good-living girl, and getting married too.’ Pausing, she shook her head. ‘With so much to live for, I still canna’ understand why she did it, wanted to end it all. Didna’ mak’ any sense to me.’

‘There hadn’t been anything worrying her?’

She frowned, said uneasily. ‘Such as?’

‘Well, a quarrel with her fiancé – about their wedding arrangements. These things do happen at the last minute…’ I hesitated, ‘or one of them meets someone else—’

‘Never that! Mind you, I think her friend Belle was trying to persuade her against this chap. There were plenty of arguments before—’ Biting her lip she left the rest unsaid.

‘She would have told you, then, if anything was wrong?’

For a moment she looked bewildered. Then she shook her head. ‘She once said I was more like a sister
than her own kin.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I shall miss them both, that I will. Many the cups of tea and a good laugh we shared.’

Screams and altercations from behind her indicated that all was not well with the remaining bairn.

She looked panic-stricken. ‘I’ll have to go. But yes, miss, you tell your nuns they can have a Mass for Amy.’

My next call was on Belle’s grandfather who occupied a one-roomed ground floor flat in a similarly dismal tenement across the street. He answered the door firmly enough on crutches. Obviously he was now used to the loss of his right leg.

I said I was from the convent and he invited me in, hardly waiting to close the door before saying that his granddaughter would never have topped herself.

‘I have a bit put away and I wanted her to come and live with me – we could have found somewhere a bit more comfortable than this. She would have none of that. A fine lass but with a will of her own. We got along fine most of the time, right fond of me she was, always remembered my birthday, came in to see me each day just to cheer me up. But she said she could never ever live in the same place with me – that I would never understand her.’

Pausing, he shook his head. ‘I gave up trying. Lasses are different to what they were when I was young.’ He sighed with a despairing look around the shabby room. ‘I can do without lectures on the way I live, I manage fine on my own.’

Glancing towards the sideboard, I noticed the bottle
of whisky and had already identified the strong smell of spirits. An old man’s consolation.

‘Belle and this chum Amy she thought so much of were good Catholics. Not like me: I lapsed long since,’ he added, indicating the proud photograph on the sideboard.

Corporal Will Sanders, a young soldier with two medals in a glass frame.

‘Killing Russky soldiers, who were just like ourselves, worshipping the same God and all that sort of thing, put an end to religion for me. Never set foot in a church since the day I came home. Not even when my lass, her ma, died.’

A shake of his head. ‘She never knew her father, scarpered when she was a bairn, but Belle and me got on well, right enough, though sometimes we had rows – she didn’t approve of me taking a drink or two.’

There seemed nothing more to say and expressing my condolences I prepared to leave.

He followed me to the door and thanked me for coming. ‘I think Belle and her chum would want to have Requiem Masses said for them.’

He looked at me intently, almost pleading. ‘I still don’t understand it. She came and visited me just hours before…before it happened. I wish you had known her.’

I didn’t have an answer to that and he took my hand and said, ‘God bless you for coming to see me. You’re a good lass.’

On an impulse, suddenly aware of the bitter loneliness of this old man who had lost everything, I scribbled my address on a piece of paper torn from my
notebook. ‘Perhaps I could look in again and see you; I often pass this way.’

He murmured gratitude, gave me a bewildered look and opened his mouth as if to say something else, then shaking his head, as if changing his mind, said, ‘No, nothing important,’ and closed the door abruptly.

I felt I had failed Jack badly. I had not one clue to prove that the two girls who had died within hours of each other had been murdered.

They were close friends, and had they both been suffering from tragic circumstances, they might possibly have had a suicide pact. But their faith and certainly Belle’s daily calls and caring for her grandfather were against that. Were there any suicide notes that the police had failed to find? The other quite minor detail, something I didn’t really want to consider, was that Amy and Belle had once been employed in the Rice household.

Much as I hated anything that might upset my new-found friend, blackmail was a silent possibility that could not be ignored. Did these two girls know something from their days at Rice Villa, regarding their past employer, which had necessitated their disposal?