Authors: Alanna Knight
Later he would learn that Burren had said: ‘We do not make choices, God chooses us to do his work.’
And on his way back to the Central Office, a new thought struck him: the emotions that mention of Ida had aroused in Burren, who had known her so briefly. Remove the clerical garb of this unlikely priest and he fitted neatly the description of the mysterious, handsome young man
who wanted to marry her. Wealth was the only missing ingredient.
However, was it possible that after seducing her he had suffered an attack of conscience and murdered her?
And a final thought. Did he have a pack of cards hidden away in the vestry, including the nine of diamonds? But unless that priestly garb concealed a ruthless killer, he could think of no possible motive to link him to the murder of both women.
There was a message awaiting Faro at his lodgings. It was from Macfie, inviting him to dine that evening, and, always glad to see his old friend, Faro was even more pleased at the offer as the funeral and the aftermath of his unsuccessful interview with the priest had left him depressed.
An evening with Macfie was something to look forward to with even more than his usual pleasurable anticipation. Dining and wining with his old friend was one of the highlights of his present sorely troubled existence.
Macfie would want to know all the latest developments at Central Office, his crafty means of keeping in touch with the police whom he had never quite forgiven, after serving for so many years, for forcing him reluctantly into retirement when his faculties were sharp as ever, his physical strength undiminished.
Faro felt a sense of relief that here was a man whose experience of the criminal world might well be of assistance to the police in this particular case, detecting what was
beginning to look like a spate of serial killings. If Jock Webb’s testimony was correct, as Faro believed, then he had narrowly escaped becoming the second victim.
Over a dram, the two men sat by the window in the handsome parlour overlooking the ancient wall which once marked the boundaries of the city and was built to keep the English king’s army at bay after the Battle of Flodden.
Fascinated by living in the lap of history, Faro found it strange to sit in this elegant house in the tranquil surroundings of Nicholson Square. Often he wondered what poor, unhappy ghosts still haunted the nearby buildings of Edinburgh University raised on the rubble of what was once Kirk O’ Fields – in the sixteenth century an ecclesiastical site high on the breezy outskirts of the city and noted for its health-giving properties but to be forever associated with the murder of Lord Darnley, unhappy Queen Mary’s insufferable second husband.
As the rosy glow of an autumn sunset touched the skyline of Salisbury Crags and slowly faded, a cheerful fire cast its gleams beyond the new gaslight which had replaced the candle sconces still lining the walls. They remained Macfie’s preferred illumination, disliking the gas mantles which he claimed were an abomination and an irritation, their constant hissing disrupting consecutive thought processes.
Realising the value of Macfie’s advice built on his thirty years with Edinburgh City Police, Faro produced his notebook. Faro explained that he had just come from the funeral of the last victim, the maid Ida, and as he described the young priest who conducted the service, Macfie looked up and gave him a questioning glance.
‘Something troubling you?’
Faro shrugged. ‘I wasn’t prepared for a priest like Fr Burren conducting a funeral service, a burial. He seemed … well, just out of the seminary. I expected priests to be older somehow, more experienced and much less handsome and worldly.’
Macfie smiled. ‘We all have to start somewhere – even the clergy – and detectives, when they emerge into the world, are very young.’ Pausing he gave Faro a wry glance. ‘And some are very good-looking too.’
Faro said: ‘That may be so, but detectives begin as raw young peelers, start their apprenticeship on the beat seeing all the worst aspects of human nature.’ He shook his head. ‘This fellow seemed so ill-equipped for my idea of a priest, but he already had what I call the voice of authority. You know what I mean, the accent of the well-to-do, used to issuing orders.’
It was Macfie’s turn to shake his head; he clearly didn’t see what Faro was getting at or what all the fuss was about.
‘Wish you could have seen him. Even his looks, the physique of a man of action. A superb voice as he stumbled through the prayer book, losing the place at the graveside, as if it was the first time he had read the words, like an actor forgetting his lines.’
Faro paused thoughtfully. ‘Very emotional too. Once or twice I thought he was going to burst into tears – and this, remember, was just for the member of a congregation he had only been with for a few weeks.’ He frowned, again that helpless shrug. ‘All this … somehow didn’t quite add up, if you know what I mean, sir. Just a feeling that it didn’t fit, an instinct that there was something wrong, that I was
missing something important – some fact I should recognise that was missing.’
Macfie had been listening carefully. He knew Faro’s observations and deductions well enough not to ignore these signals. Now he regarded him intently. ‘Right from the beginning if you please, lad.’ As he tried to describe the scene at the graveside in detail, Macfie was arching his fingertips together in a manner Faro was familiar with. An attitude of deep concentration. At the end he sat back and smiled.
‘Ah, now I realise what is troubling you. Our young priest fits remarkably well into the description the girl Ida gave your young lady companion. That is so, is it not?’
Faro didn’t answer and Macfie continued consolingly. ‘But let’s face it, lad, you must realise that this is an unlikely and difficult role for a killer to adopt. Of course, it has been attempted and does exist in the annals of crime, the perfect disguise for the perfect crime which no one would suspect.’ He laughed. ‘Never a priest, a man of God!’
Macfie paused. ‘Perhaps you are being unconsciously influenced by the idea that this particular priest’s appearance suggested an actor, and actors lead you to the Vaudeville and the first murder of Doris Page. You are applying logic in a baffling case – all those playing cards for instance – and perhaps looking for a killer with theatrical connections. Am I correct?’
Faro hadn’t actually got that far in his assumptions. He said: ‘It is an interesting theory, sir, and the description also fits Jock Webb’s description of his attacker as a tall, strong man who he wrestled with.’
‘A young man?’
Faro shook his head. ‘Webb didn’t specify age. Asked, he merely emphasised the man’s physical strength but his actual age and appearance would be difficult seeing that he was tackled from behind, and as it was dark, he never actually saw the man’s face clearly.’
Macfie sighed. ‘We will need to know a great deal more about Fr Burren and I think I can help you there. The head of the Catholic Church here in Edinburgh is an old friend from a fraud case I investigated some years ago. Perhaps any information he can obtain will confirm or put an end to your suspicions.’
There was a pause in conversation as Macfie’s housekeeper came in. Miss Agnew, a middle-aged spinster of ample proportions and a genial but respectful disposition, who, Faro suspected, absolutely doted on her employer, removed their soup plates and replaced them with an excellent beef steak pie. Murmurs of approval came from both men as they ate in silence.
Finally Macfie laid aside his fork and knife, refreshed their wine glasses and continued: ‘Now, about this actress you were clever enough to work out as the killer’s first victim. Well done, lad. As you know, observation and deduction never go wrong. How was Glasgow? I knew it well in the old days before so many changes had been made to George Square. The city centre was more like a country estate.’
‘I’m afraid it was a wasted journey, just a small expedition of my own after delivering Gosse’s report to the City Chambers. When I got back to Edinburgh it was to learn that the victim’s husband, one Len Page, had informed the police that she was missing and identified her body just
as it was about to be shipped off to Surgeons’ Hall. When I interviewed Page at Gosse’s request all my instincts said that unless this ordinary middle-aged widower was also a consummate actor, I would swear that he was not her killer. Just a poor, unhappy man, wasting his life by loving the wrong woman.’
As he spoke Faro felt again overwhelmed by the surge of his own anguish, his unrequited love for Inga St Ola.
He paused and Macfie nodded, said softly, ‘Almost as though you had been through it all yourself.’
‘Something like that, sir.’ Faro sighed and put down his glass, then continued hastily: ‘Page has an unbreakable alibi: during his search for his missing wife he got into a pub brawl and, fortunately for him, as it happened, was locked up in a Glasgow jail that night, as drunk and disorderly.’
Macfie smiled. ‘Fortunate indeed. Otherwise he would have been marked down by Gosse as the prime suspect.’
Faro wasn’t smiling. He was frowning. Suddenly the need to share his distress was compelling. ‘When I was in Glasgow, sir, I met someone again, from Orkney …’
Macfie’s head jerked upwards, a questioning look as Faro went on. ‘Yes, my first love. I have never forgotten her and always hoped that we could be together some day.’ He shook his head. ‘But she was at the hotel where I intended staying – she was there with …someone – an older man, she claimed was her employer. I gathered he was of some importance, a politician.’ He paused, reliving that painful scene again. ‘And I knew instantly that it was too late. They were in love. I read it in their faces as if they had shouted the words at me.’
Another pause as the housekeeper brought in the Scotch trifle, a favourite with both men. They ate in silence, replacing spoons on empty plates, and ignoring Faro’s earlier outburst of confidence, Macfie asked: ‘Has Gosse finished his interviews at Lumbleigh Green?’
‘He continued some of them while I was away, I believe.’
Macfie smiled to himself. So that explained it – or did it? How he had seen Gosse and Mrs Laurie having tea in his favourite café in the High Street, which seemed an unusual setting for a police interview rather than the place where she worked, the scene of the maid’s disappearance.
From a shrewd observer’s point of view it also seemed that DS Gosse, laughing, smiling, leaning forward to whisper, laying the charm on thickly, was very taken with this particular member of the Lumbleigh servants. Tactfully Macfie decided to keep that information to himself and merely remarked: ‘How is Mrs Laurie?’
Faro responded that she was well, and happy at having been promoted recently as Mrs Lumbleigh’s personal maid. ‘That also offers extra facilities – living in for her, and also for Vince to be boarded at the coachman’s cottage. It’s a great improvement on the tenement room she had in the Pleasance.’
‘That is good news,’ said Macfie. ‘Perhaps you would like to bring Mrs Laurie to tea sometime.’
Faro realised that Macfie was keen to meet Lizzie and said, ‘I’m sure she would be delighted, sir,’ leaving Macfie to wonder whether the wily sergeant was playing some unsubtle game trying to drive a wedge between Faro and his young lady, as Faro added: ‘Sir, I don’t know what
to do about her at the moment. My emotions are all topsy-turvy. I am very fond of her and she has had a rough time.’
Macfie nodded. In common with everyone else he knew nothing beyond the fiction that the very attractive Mrs Laurie was a soldier’s widow with a young son, as Faro continued hesitantly, ‘You see, sir, the boy Vince is the main problem to our relationship. He makes no secret that he detests me.’
The older man smiled. ‘That is not surprising, lad. Often the way with a lad seeing his mother with a new man in her life and feeling that he is being replaced in her affections, and worse, that this fellow is going to try take his father’s place. I shouldn’t let that worry you too much.’ And with an abrupt change of subject he said, ‘We still haven’t solved the playing card conundrum. The curse of Scotland. Where does that fit in? Do you think it is a clue?’
They discussed that for a while. The possibility, however remote, that the killer had some link with past family grievances.
Macfie nodded. ‘It doesn’t make sense; it could be a madman, very highly educated but obviously insane, to have such a concept. But we never know until it is too late, mostly, that motives like revenge can have terrible consequences – on the innocent as well as the guilty.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘On the other hand it could be merely something put on the scene of the crime to distract the police from the real purpose behind the killings.’
Faro left him that evening, making his way back to his lodgings and wondering whether he should have told
Macfie about Paul Lumbleigh being the drunk young man at the theatre trying to drag a dancer in a red dress into his carriage. Especially as that was what had led him to suspect that dead woman in Fleshers Close might not be a prostitute, as Gosse maintained, but a member of the chorus from the Vaudeville Theatre.
It had paid off. And now, until Macfie had found out more about Fr Burren, Paul Lumbleigh was his prime suspect.
Faro awoke next morning determined that an immediate interview with Paul Lumbleigh was a vital stage of the murder investigation.
When he mentioned this to Gosse without giving his reasons, the sergeant shrugged. ‘I had a quick word with young Paul and he had an alibi. You’d be wasting your time – and police time too. And let me tell you, once again, there has been enough ill feeling with our dabbling inside Lumbleigh House without having his father issue an official complaint for harassment against the Edinburgh City Police – as he has threatened. And he has friends in high places.’
He sighed wearily and fingered the papers on his desk in a manner of urgency. ‘So just leave it alone, Faro, and keep looking in more likely places.’ Pausing he shook his head. ‘I haven’t quite given up on Webb, or even Page for that matter.’
So Faro left him. He certainly wasn’t persuaded to give
up on Paul but he was still pondering on what plausible excuse he could invent, when opportunity came for him from a most unexpected quarter.
Clara Lumbleigh had been delighted to discover that she shared a birthday with Lizzie Laurie. She had never met anyone with the same birthday before and it seemed such a good omen, the reason she felt more drawn to her maid than to any of the other women she’d ever met. Not that she had been on intimate terms with any of them to discover such personal information.
She decided this was the mystical bond that explained why she had so much in common with Laurie and had trusted her with a few of those secrets from her past. She would have been even more surprised to learn that, had Lizzie vouchsafed her own particular confidences in return, they had even more in common than she could have imagined.
Clara’s scheme began with a gentle reminder of the approaching birthday to Archie, who never remembered or even tried to remember such occasions. Too busy, was his excuse. However, although he winced at the prospect of another expensive piece of jewellery for his beloved wife, he realised that good form and their social position demanded the obligatory celebration. As this year was not a milestone, a small dinner party with some of their friends – notably those business acquaintances who he hoped would ease his foot a rung further up the social ladder – perhaps eighteen filling the chairs around the long mahogany dining table would be adequate, a table that rarely saw more than himself, Clara and Paul as the sole diners.
Arranged as a surprise, he had the invitations printed and presented Clara with his list. She hardly knew any of the invited guests; a trio of the women she met for afternoon tea summarised her circle. Others like Mrs or Lady so-and-so were strangers to her.
Nevertheless she surveyed the list critically, concealing her feelings with a gracious smile saying how she appreciated Archie’s thoughtfulness, and she added sweetly:
‘There is one extra person, dear, someone who shares my birthday and I would love to include her.’
Archie looked up from his desk. ‘Of course, my dear, this is your party, you may include anyone you wish. What is the lady’s name and address? I will have an invitation sent to her.’
Again Clara smiled, and leaning over him, put an arm around his shoulders, kissed his cheek. ‘There is no need for that, dearest. I will deliver it by hand. She will be quite charmed.’
Archie frowned. ‘Indeed? Are you seeing her imminently?’
Clara laughed delightedly. ‘I see her every day.’
‘Every day? I don’t understand …’
‘Of course you don’t. It is Laurie.’
‘Laurie? Laurie – not your maid, surely?’ Archie looked shocked.
‘The same, my darling. You see, we have the same birthday.’
‘You do? How incredible.’ How incredible, he thought, that a mere servant should share the same birthday as the lady of the manor. It didn’t seem quite decent somehow. But worse was to come.
‘I would like her to be my guest.’
‘You mean – at the dinner?’ And Archie’s mouth fell open in astonishment.
‘Of course.’
Archie stared at her in amazement. She must have lost her wits, to even think of making such a request. Her servant sharing the dinner table with his list of some of the cream of Edinburgh high society.
She was standing there, smiling at him so eagerly, awaiting his reply.
He shook his head. ‘No, my dear. It is impossible, quite impossible.’ And as she began to protest he said: ‘No, my dear, surely you must realise that we cannot have a servant dining with us. We would be a laughing stock.’ He added stiffly: ‘That is all I have to say on the matter. I am sorry to disappoint you. No – wait, my precious—’
But with tears in her eyes, Clara was already on the other side of the study door. Disappointed, maybe, and let down by her husband, but certainly not defeated. Laurie should have her party and she herself would be her guest.
Accordingly it was arranged with Mrs Brown, who baked a cake and made all the preparations for the birthday evening. Clara’s celebration was arranged for 8 p.m. but before that, at 6 p.m., she would be in the kitchen sharing a birthday party with dear Laurie.
Lizzie, who knew nothing of Clara’s original intention to have her included at the event upstairs, was immensely flattered that her birthday should have been considered so important to her mistress.
‘You are to invite whoever of your friends you would like to have, as well as, of course, Betty and the Browns.’
Lizzie did not need to consider a list. She had only two
requests: Vince and, she added shyly, ‘My friend, Detective Constable Faro, if you please, madam.’
Clara wasn’t put out by this request. Patting Lizzie’s hand, she said: ‘Of course,’ determined, however, to withhold this information from Archie who she suspected would get very angry indeed at one of those wretched snooping policemen being entertained in his kitchen.
So the plans were made. Vince mentioned it to Paul who said rather grimly: ‘It will be more fun than Clara’s official one, I can tell you that. My stepfather’s collection of friends are quite dire.’
‘Why don’t you come to Mamma’s then? I’m sure she would love to have you.’
Paul looked at him. In his innocence Vince was quite unaware of the notorious reputation Paul had among the female servants. He felt very wistful. Perhaps Laurie wouldn’t remember that amorous overture and the slapped face he got in return.
Noticing his hesitation, Vince said: ‘Please come, Paul. It won’t be much fun without you. And we could do some of your card tricks. Oh, please, please.’
Any plea from his young friend was quite irresistible. So Paul promised, as long as Vince consulted his mother first and she approved.
Lizzie wasn’t taken aback by Vince’s request. She tried to set aside her initial misgivings, her suspicions that, in Vince’s eyes, Paul was rapidly filling the place of an absent father. A fact that was, in truth, hardly surprising seeing that she was just seven years older than Paul and to a boy of twelve they must have both appeared as quite old.
While recognising that hero-worship was important
to a fatherless boy, she could only hope and pray that some of the less agreeable aspects of Paul’s character, like gambling and shooting, would not do any lasting damage.
And so, on the evening of Lizzie’s birthday, Mrs Brown having overseen that everything was present and correct in the drawing room for the arrival of the birthday guests, at 6 p.m. Clara made her way down to the kitchen where the housekeeper had spread a handsome white tablecloth on the wooden table and put flowers and candles as adornments beside a birthday cake, a tiny replica of the one that would be displayed on the sideboard in the dining room upstairs.
Lizzie looked very pretty in her best dress, a turquoise silk gown trimmed with lace, and that little boy Vince looked quite grown up in a dark-blue suit with white shirt and cravat. He would be a handsome young man some day, resembling his mother with his blond curls, and Mrs Brown decided she must ask Laurie more about his father. He had the look of quality, well bred and instinctively polite, as fitted the son of a gentleman rather than a common soldier.
Detective Constable Faro arrived. Out of his policeman’s uniform she was immediately struck by his good looks. As he took a seat next to Lizzie, Clara knew immediately, without anyone saying a word, that her adoring looks in his direction declared to all the world her love for him, and blowing out the candles on the cake, she would make a wish that all would work out well for her dear Laurie.
Betty and Mrs Brown were making the final preparations at the stove. She took a seat at the table and fell into polite conversation with Vince – the usual topic he was so used to from most of the adult world. How was he enjoying school and what subjects did he like best? He was spared the usual
polite answer by the sound of manly steps approaching along the stone corridor. Clara took a great gulp of air and gave up a silent prayer that this was not Archie with some reason for visiting the kitchen.
The door opened to admit Paul. Vince, Faro and Lizzie sprang to their feet. Betty and Mrs Brown, looking confused, curtseyed.
Paul smiled and handed Lizzie a posy of flowers. ‘Happy birthday, Mrs Laurie.’ He looked at Clara, for once a smile without hostility.
‘Do sit down, sir,’ said Lizzie.
Clara gave him a puzzled glance. Vince smiled. ‘Paul is my mother’s special guest.’
Vince had painted a birthday card, which was viewed by all with great admiration. Faro, who had little experience regarding presents for young women, had remembered that females liked wearing lace shawls and there was just such a shop on his way along the Lawnmarket.
Lizzie was delighted, and thanked him shyly as he draped it around her slim shoulders, other females exclaiming: ‘How lovely! It suits you!’
Faro relaxed and gave a sigh of relief as they took their seats around the table. The only missing member was Brown; his wife said he’d begged to be excused and in a whispered aside to Lizzie explained: ‘He can’t take rich food. Has awful trouble with his stomach, has to be careful what he eats. His digestion is chronic, it’s all that waiting about in the carriage in all weathers.’
A light supper followed, but all eyes were concentrated on the iced birthday cake. As they ate, Faro now a keen observer found himself for the first time on common
ground with Vince, discovering things they shared and his remarks greeted with smiling interest, without unconcealed hostility. The boy was intelligent and looking forward to reading one of Shakespeare’s plays, thanks to Paul, who laughingly confessed that he dabbled a bit in the amateur dramatic society at the university. Faro found himself making a mental note of that for later.
The conversation was among the three males; the females had little to impart, Mrs Brown and Betty attentive to food and drink while Clara merely gazed from speaker to speaker in an attitude of listening intently without any apparent desire to be drawn in, and as topics moved to poets, artists and music, ready with a gracious smile to any whose eye she caught across the table.
Faro sat back amazed. The first surprise was the sudden transformation in Vince from a sullen, uncommunicative schoolboy to a friendly, highly intelligent young lad. Doubtless this owed much to Paul Lumbleigh’s influence on him, and there lay the second surprise. Apparently there was a great deal more to the son of the house than the dissolute wastrel he had been led to believe he was.
But when Paul produced a pack of cards and invited them to take one, put it back and then amazingly produced that very card, watching his deft movements vaulted Faro back into the realisation that he was in fact on a murder investigation. And the young man with his magician’s tricks who was also his prime suspect had now added another dimension to the sinister presence of the nine of diamonds at the murder scenes. A possible link with the theatre.