Authors: Alanna Knight
So she closed her lips firmly and lent a sympathetic ear, aware that Clara had told her just enough to shed a little of this intolerable burden in a secret bond that made it marginally easier for her mistress to bear.
When Faro reported his interview with Page, Gosse commented dryly: ‘Pity you didn’t think to go to the funeral with him. Funerals, I have discovered from my vast experience, are places to pick up clues. Family mourners often reveal surprising things about their relationships in the stress of the moment.’
He paused, adding grimly, ‘And funerals are often visited by murderers. God knows why, perhaps to make sure their victims can’t jump up and denounce them, or out of a sense of curiosity that they have got away with it. Safe at last.’ He shook his head. ‘But one thing is sure, it’s a time of high emotions all round and the most unexpected people can be overcome and give away useful details for a murder investigation.’
Faro listened patiently and as Gosse paused for breath he took the opportunity to interrupt: ‘I could hardly walk behind the coffin with the bereaved and grieving husband, sir. He didn’t suggest that I accompany him and there
weren’t any other mourners with whom I might have mingled unobtrusively. No one. As far as we know from Page’s statement, he had just arrived in Edinburgh and his late wife hadn’t been here long.’
Gosse held up his hand. ‘I don’t agree with your objections, Faro. Page claims he wants to know who killed her. You could have kept a sharp look out and made a note of any curious observers.’
This seemed another one of Gosse’s tedious arguments bent on getting nowhere and Faro said sharply, ‘I must confess it never occurred to me, sir. It would have seemed an unpardonable liberty to intrude on the poor man’s grief with my presence any longer.’
Gosse looked at him silently for a moment, then sighed. ‘You are far too sensitive, Faro, as I have said before, and this, I fear, will be a great impediment to your career. I can visualise you still being a detective constable when you’re past fifty and ready to retire. Police business, catching criminals, comes first, before personal feelings if you want to succeed. Try to remember that.’
And picking up some papers on the desk, he added, ‘So don’t let it happen next time.’
‘Next time, sir?’
Gosse sighed wearily. ‘Yes, indeed. You are to go to Ida Watt’s funeral. There will be plenty of mourners there, local people as well as the servants from Lumbleigh Green.’
Faro had in mind a kirkyard where the Watts lived in Bonnyrigg when Gosse said: ‘You’ll be saved all the footwork. Catholic church at the Pleasance have their own burial ground. See if you can have a word with the priest, prise any information out of him. Confessions and all that
sort of thing could be a mine of useful information. Fill in those vital missing details. He’s our best bet, Faro, so see to it.’
Faro thought that prising information out of the priest was highly unlikely. His knowledge of religion was sufficient to tell him that the secrets of the confessional were sacred and unbreakable.
Observing his doubtful expression Gosse pressed on: ‘For God’s sake, man, show some enthusiasm. Stress that this is a murder case and he will be more than willing to help us find the killer. A young woman from his congregation. Priests are human beings, after all.’
Gosse sat back in Wade’s comfortable armchair. ‘I have a lot on hand, Faro.’ And consulting a note, ‘The funeral’s this afternoon. See if you can make a success contributing something to our investigation for a change.’
Faro hated funerals and decided against wearing his uniform. This was agonising enough for the dead girl’s family without a reminder that she had been murdered, her killer still at large.
The fact that the servants from Lumbleigh Green were likely to be there and that would doubtless include Lizzie, well to the fore and marked down as Ida’s friend, did nothing to cheer him. He wasn’t looking forward to meeting her at the graveside.
Gosse had got the time wrong and the Requiem Mass in the church redolent with incense – as a non-Catholic, a ceremony way beyond Faro’s Presbyterian upbringing – was almost over, and he decided to head on to the graveyard a short distance from the church. Under the lofty shadow of Salisbury Crags, it offered little shelter for grieving relatives.
Mercifully, this was a clear, sunny but cold afternoon, and after a short wait, the trail of mourners arrived, headed by the Watts behind the coffin followed by friends and members of the congregation. He went forward and offered condolences to Ida’s parents; her distraught mother looked as if she had not stopped crying or slept for a week.
In a tearful acknowledgement to Faro, she was leaning on the arm of her husband, who was losing the battle to keep a stiff upper lip on the loss of a devoted daughter. He asked sharply and somewhat accusingly: ‘Well, have you got him yet?’
Faro shook his head. Never had he felt more helpless. The grief of those two, as well as the memory of Doris Page’s bereaved husband, strengthened his resolve to find the killer, see him brought to justice and hanged for his crimes.
Listening to the committal service at the graveside, he was surprised to see that the priest was a man younger than himself: tall, athletic-looking, with exceptional looks and a splendid voice that would have served him well in the theatre. Faro thought wryly that such attributes were lost in a life of celibacy.
He looked round the mourners. Lumbleigh Green was represented by Clara in a respectful black bonnet, with Mrs Brown, Betty and Lizzie, who wore dark clothes as their servants’ uniforms, and had added black ribbons to their bonnets. The four women were driven over the short distance but Brown did not join them at the graveside, remaining with the carriage nearby. In the traditional manner of coachmen used to coping with Edinburgh’s uncertain weather and chill winds blowing from the
Firth of Forth, Brown sat muffled up and, as fashion dictated, abundantly whiskered. Faro preferred to remain clean-shaven and thought that having so much facial hair must have seemed like regarding the world from behind a thick hedge.
Clara’s arrival had been greeted with courtesy and bows from the women and raised tall hats from the men. Alongside the chief mourners, Mrs Brown at her side appeared regal and dignified, hands clasped, suitably respectful.
Lizzie was looking pale and sad in her servant’s dark costume; mourning had demanded that those rich, fair and abundant curls be securely bonneted. Her arm supported Betty, sobbing uncontrollably and distraught as befitted the chief mourners, despite her short acquaintance with Ida.
Faro was conscious that Lizzie was gazing in his direction, but with a feeling of helplessness he avoided her eyes and concentrated on the heartbreaking scene being played out before him. Despite Gosse’s instructions, it was impossible to see among some forty strange faces surrounding him, a loyal turnout of the church’s entire congregation, as well as local friends of the Watts, whether they included a murderer lurking in their midst.
And suddenly it seemed no longer important. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, a flower thrown into the grave by Ida’s father and it was over … the benediction.
Lizzie lingered; her eyes tear-filled, she came towards him.
‘It is so sad, Jeremy … I am so sorry …’
Although he took her hand, bowed briefly over it, so
cold in the warm depth of his fist, she was conscious that he was hardly aware of her. He indicated the priest shaking hands with the mourners, anxious not to lose contact with him.
‘I can’t talk just now, Lizzie. I will call on you in the next day or so.’
Raising his hat politely he bowed and hurried away. Feeling let down, rejected by his manner – so alarmingly casual – and with tears for her own sadness and disappointment now, needing his comforting presence so much at this tragic time, she watched him approach the priest.
It was time to return to Lumbleigh Green in the carriage, with Brown, patient for so long in the cold, trying to calm the horses stamping their feet. At last, trotting briskly, they passed Faro in earnest conversation with the young priest. He did not glance in their direction and that hurt Lizzie too.
Clara sitting at her side took her hand in a wordless gesture of comfort while Betty continued to stare out of the window, her eyes red with weeping, her frightened glance indicating a very uncertain future of possible murderers lurking around Lumbleigh Green.
Fr Burren’s first question to Faro had been: ‘Are you a friend of the family?’
Faro shook his head. ‘No, Father.’ Out of uniform and in the midst of the mourners he was reluctant to declare himself as a policeman, although the Watts were aware of his identity. ‘Just a word in private.’
A hand touched the priest’s sleeve. It was a woman, come to thank him. Ida’s auntie from Kelso.
The priest stopped sharp, his eyes flooded with tears. ‘Dreadful, dreadful.’ He put a hand briefly on her shoulder, she turned away and he looked blankly at Faro who repeated:
‘I was hoping to have a few words …’
The priest regained his composure, stared wildly ahead and said: ‘I cannot talk to you just now – I have daily offices, you understand. Perhaps you could come across to the church in an hour or so.’
Faro duly presented himself as the priest had requested, after spending that hour sitting on a wall nearby and taking the opportunity to make notes of his somewhat unhelpful observations to present to Gosse.
The church door creaked open. It was dark inside after the sunlight and at first glance seemed empty, apart for the serene faces of the saints looking down on him, the lingering smell of flowers and incense.
‘Hello!’ he called, and as his voice echoed round the walls, another sound: Fr Burren emerged from the direction of the vestry, donning his white surplice over his clerical black garb.
Smiling gently he invited Faro to follow him and indicated a pew in the aisle. Adjusting the sacred velvet stole around his neck, he laid it reverently to his lips and asked: ‘What can I do for you, sir? Is it confession you are after, then? Friday is the normal day …’
Faro shook his head in embarrassment. ‘No, Father. I am not a Roman Catholic. I’m a policeman – Detective Constable Faro – and my presence at the funeral is to further our enquiries into the death of the young woman.’
Again the priest seemed overcome by emotion. Lowering
his head, he nodded a few times as if shaking away those terrible thoughts, then recovering he said stiffly, ‘I am not aware how I might help you, Constable. I only knew Ida’ – pausing he took a deep breath – ‘the young lady, as a parishioner. I am new to the parish and indeed to Edinburgh. I came over from Dublin a few weeks ago to take up this parish.’ As he spoke Faro noticed again the fine voice, the pleasing Irish brogue.
That was indeed a setback but Faro went on: ‘I wish to get to know those of her circle who were acquainted with her movements. Perhaps you could give me some advice in that direction.’
The priest looked at him intently and frowned. ‘I am not sure what you mean by “advice”.’
Faro took a deep breath. ‘We have been led to understand that Ida was in a difficult position, regarding her family, and she had no one in whom to confide her problems.’
Burren bit his lip and thought about that for a moment. ‘And what sort of problems would they be, now?’
‘She had some wealthy young man who she claimed wanted to marry her. On the night she … disappeared, she was intending to elope with him.’
The priest was watching him, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles shone white, but his face gave nothing away. He took a deep breath and asked softly: ‘And how is it that you think I can help you?’
‘If you could give us the name of this young man …’
Burren seemed startled by the question. ‘Was he not present at the graveside, then?’
‘Not that I am aware.’
‘Then how do you think I can help the police?’ He stood up sharply, bowed towards the altar – a clear sign of dismissal. ‘I am sorry.’
‘A moment, Father. Did Ida come to confession regularly each week?’
‘Of course.’ And Burren realised too late that he had fallen into a trap. His shoulders slumped but he regarded Faro sternly. ‘Such matters are not for public scrutiny. What is revealed in the confessional is sacred between priest and penitent and God’s forgiveness.’
‘But she did tell you something of her intentions?’ Faro insisted.
The priest shrugged, folded his hands before him. ‘Perhaps so,’ he said uneasily. He did not want to lie.
There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence before Faro said: ‘I realise you are in a difficult situation, Father, but you must realise that if you know and are withholding some detail of importance regarding Ida’s unfortunate death, your silence is hampering police investigations and the capture of a murderer. I might add that he has already claimed two women victims and might well claim more.’
The response was a shudder of horror, a genuflection, then in a calm voice, Burren repeated once more: ‘I can tell you nothing, officer. I am responsible to a higher authority than the Edinburgh City Police and to break the Church’s vows is to sacrifice the future of my calling as well as my immortal soul.’
‘Then you do know something,’ Faro insisted.
A shake of the head. ‘I cannot discuss this but I can assure you that Ida Watts is – was – a God-fearing young
girl, a good Catholic, and I do not believe she would have given her heart to an evil killer.’ He made a move towards the door. ‘You must look elsewhere for your information, Constable.’
Faro stared at him. Incredible that he was stubbornly refusing to help by telling them the name of Ida’s lover, her killer who had probably also murdered Doris Page.
‘Now I must leave you,’ the priest said sharply. ‘I have offices to perform.’
Watching him walk firmly towards the altar, Faro thought of his eloquence, those exceptional good looks, somehow wasted on this servant of God, with his splendid reverberating voice, that lilting Irish brogue.
As he walked away from the church he thought that this short acquaintance with Fr Burren had made a rare and lasting impression on him. Remembering that first sight of him at the graveside intoning the solemn words of the burial of the dead, yet stumbling through it as if for the first time, reading from the book through suppressed tears. The handsome young man, strong, virile-looking and less like a celibate priest than any cleric he had ever encountered. Faro was curious as to what, when he had so much going for him, had made him choose such a profession.