Authors: Alanna Knight
Confident, he walked faster now, his mind very much on what to do about Lizzie for again the accursed weather was a blight on their future activities – no more countryside walks as winter approached, and the shorter hours of daylight would also cut short their options of what to do with dark evenings and no place to go.
Deep in thought, suddenly he realised he had missed the path. Where was it now? He stopped, considering. Turning, searching, looking round for the landmark, a large boulder he remembered.
That second’s hesitation saved his life.
Had he not stood still, he would have died on the spot,
killed by the bullet that ricocheted off a boulder above his head. Instinctively, he threw himself down, lay silent, heart thumping, awaiting the next shot.
It did not come and cautiously he lifted his head, rose to his feet. The chill, clinging mist was the only thing that moved in that desolate scene. And suddenly he had a sense of triumph.
This attempt on his life meant that the killer realised that DC Faro was on to him, and getting closer. Someone who knew his movements, and what better way than to use the mist as a screen for a shooting accident?
But who? Suddenly a black shadow emerged from the mist. The killer? It grew into a big dog, hurtling towards him.
‘Boy! Here, Boy!’
A human voice, and then a tall man became visible.
Paul Lumbleigh, carrying a rifle.
A few steps behind Paul, a small figure. Vince with the shooting target. If Faro’s sudden appearance had shocked Paul – was it to find him still alive? – then the sentiment was mutual.
‘A bit off your beat, aren’t you, Constable?’ said Paul eying the uniform.
‘We have a missing persons enquiry, sir,’ Faro said shortly. There was no point in pretending otherwise, seeing that Paul would soon know the truth, he thought grimly, if he was not aware of it already.
‘Indeed?’ Paul looked around as if the mist might provide an answer. Then with a shrug he said: ‘Best of luck, then,’ and turned in the direction of Lumbleigh Green.
Vince indicated the target and added proudly: ‘Makes it harder to hit when visibility is poor.’
‘I gather you are improving,’ Faro said and Vince nodded eagerly.
‘Paul says I’ll be a crack shot when the circus next comes
to the Meadows. I’ll win all the prizes. I’d like something nice for Ma,’ he added wistfully.
Paul smiled. ‘She will be very proud of your progress.’
Faro doubted that and as the two prepared to walk on, Faro said: ‘A moment, sir, if you please.’
Paul stopped, sighed and shivered. ‘Not more questions, Constable, we’re off home. Vince is straight from school, hungry as a hunter and needing his tea.’
Faro ignored that and said: ‘This won’t take long; perhaps I might walk with you both as far as the cottage?’
‘As you wish,’ Paul said shortly as Faro fell into step alongside.
‘I understand that you are interested in running a drama group.’
‘True.’ Paul turned and Faro noted a look of sudden anger. ‘Are you interested in joining such activities? We are always on the lookout for new members,’ he continued. ‘And males are harder to recruit than females.’
As Faro shook his head and replied, ‘Sorry to disappoint you, sir,’ Vince put in:
‘I’d be keen to join. You know that, Paul.’
Paul laughed. ‘Wait a few years. You’re too young for Othello.’
As Vince began to protest about suitable young roles in Shakespeare, Faro interrupted and said seriously: ‘This matter concerns the hall at the Catholic church, sir.’
Paul stopped. ‘Indeed. We are desperate for suitable premises for our rehearsals.’
Faro put in quickly, ‘The priest, Fr Burren, is missing.’
Engrossed in watching Vince throw sticks for the dog, Paul shrugged. ‘So?’
‘I understand from the priest’s housekeeper that you visited him two evenings ago, just before he disappeared.’
Paul stopped, shook his head. ‘That is so. But I don’t understand why that should be of interest to me, Constable.’
Faro took a deep breath. Either Paul was innocent or he was a good actor. ‘The priest has been reported as missing, sir. The circumstances surrounding his disappearance have aroused some concern. They indicate that he has either suffered some accident or has been abducted.’
‘Abducted!’ Paul whistled. ‘Who would want to abduct a priest, for heaven’s sake?’
‘I doubt that heaven was concerned in this matter,’ Faro said gravely.
‘Indeed?’ Paul frowned. ‘This is a serious matter, but how does it concern me?’
‘As possibly the last person to see him, sir.’ Faro said carefully, ‘It is a purely routine matter for us to talk to you in the hope that you might provide some information that might help us to trace him.’
Paul groaned. ‘More of the same tedious procedures we have endured at the house, eh, Constable? Well, I can save you a little legwork. My visit was to see if our drama group might hire the church hall. I was with him about ten minutes and then I crossed the road and called on the verger to book the hall.’ Pausing he sighed. ‘Does that satisfy requirements, Constable?’
‘I shall make a note of it, sir. Might I ask, was there anything that seemed to you odd in his behaviour that might be evident to a doctor – such as yourself?’
Paul, resisting this flattery, shook his head. ‘Seeing this was our first and only meeting, I had no means of judging his
mental condition. He seemed a nice enough chap, earnest and eager to be helpful. A bit highly strung, perhaps,’ he added as an afterthought.
They had reached the garden gate where Vince was waiting for them. Paul turned. ‘Well, once again, good luck with your search. Hope you find him soon.’ And looking up to the hill: ‘Hope the poor chap hasn’t come to some harm. The rabbit holes are a curse.’
‘What’s happened?’ Vince asked.
‘Someone gone missing on the hill,’ said Paul.
There was one more vital question. ‘Did you see anything just now, sir? I mean, did you see any of our lot?’
Paul shook his head. ‘Not really. We were just at the base of the hill. But just before we met you, I saw a shape in the mist. I called out to him in case he was lost. Presumably one of your constables.’
Vince said: ‘Paul said we had better warn him. It’s dangerous if someone got between us and our target.’
This remark received a rather irritated glance from Paul as Faro went on: ‘You didn’t by any chance take a potshot at this shape, sir, mistaking it for a rabbit, of course?’
Paul laughed. ‘A man-sized rabbit! Now that would be something new, one of these mysterious beasts of local legends.’
‘Like the hounds that reputedly sit by King Arthur’s side inside the hill,’ Vince put in eagerly. ‘I’d love to see them ride out in full armour, wouldn’t that be wonderful?’
‘A bit scary, I should think,’ said Paul. ‘They might mistake us for their enemies—’
Faro interrupted. ‘I heard a shot.’
Paul nodded and indicated the game bag over his shoulder. ‘One for the pot, Constable. Good day.’
‘Bye, sir.’ Vince waved as he disappeared in the direction of the cottage.
Faro was still shaken. Someone had tried to kill him – and perhaps thought they had succeeded, given he had thrown himself to the ground and remained there playing dead, preparing all his muscles and sinews to spring up and fight for his life had the killer come over to make sure he had hit his target.
As he headed back toward the Central Office, a deadly thought persisted. What if Paul had intended to kill him and was accused of attempted murder? He would produce Vince, a twelve-year-old boy, to convince the jury that this was an accident, a stray shot on a misty hill.
What horrors might then lie in wait for Lizzie and her future?
The following day Archie was at home, recovering his good spirits. His faith in the power and social benefits that money could achieve had been dented but not destroyed by what he regarded as a mere interlude. The unfortunate episode of the table maid’s suicide would have been bad enough, but to then have it declared as murder, that was too much, followed by the unpleasant surge of policemen with their incredibly prying questions into his private life which was completely unrelated to the crime.
Clara, he observed, had also resumed her smiling exterior, her quiet submissive existence as a beautiful ornament in his priceless collection. It was to his advantage that she never expressed the slightest interest in his life before they met.
Or so Archie fondly believed. The truth was rather different and would have disturbed his tranquility, to say the least. Under that smiling exterior displayed to all the world, there lurked a resourceful curiosity. That was not
remarkable if one considered the details of her own past and her struggle for survival. Spending most of her days within the confines of this vast house, with a husband whose only interest in her was displayed behind the closed doors of their adjoining bedrooms each night, she had few friends – only mere female acquaintances whose husbands were involved in Archie’s business circle, which he so assiduously nurtured in his constant strive to climb the ladder of Edinburgh society.
Daily life against such a background was predictable and monotonous; with no reason or opportunity for exploring the vast city outside Lumbleigh Green, she felt trapped, a bird in a gilded cage. Anything locked became her absorbing interest. She enjoyed a secret exploration of locked cupboards and drawers, with a particular fascination for the forbidden mahogany desk in the study.
One day Archie had been called away and carelessly left a set of keys on his desk. After a trial, one fitted, and after some effort opened a rather difficult lock.
Clara’s curiosity was rewarded with a large envelope file. A quick look inside revealed it contained information about Archie’s past. Details of court proceedings along with newspaper clippings, perhaps retained on the off chance that some future proof or defence might be needed.
The sound of Archie’s voice in the hall announced his unexpected return. In danger of being caught red-handed, she panicked, flung down the keys and with no time to fumble with the lock of the stubborn drawer and replace the envelope, she carried it upstairs and, trembling with guilt, thrust it away to await an opportunity for its return.
In common with eavesdroppers who hear no good of
themselves, the proceeds of her idle curiosity made her painfully aware of the transience of her own future should her past be revealed.
However, she was also aware of the value of what she held as a possible means of preservation, aware that as a woman she was utterly dependent on her husband. By law everything she possessed, every piece of jewellery down to the very clothes on her back, belonged to Archie. He could send her out into the world stark naked if he decided she was no longer useful, his heart set on a new, more exciting woman in his life.
Her brief glimpse of the envelope’s contents had also produced a bundle of letters which were of more immediate interest than dull court proceedings. A legal document concerning Mavis Rayne, a perfumer, and her property, owned by Archibald Lumbleigh. From the date, Mavis had been on the scene long before Clara made her appearance – a threat should a day come when her beauty faded and with it her husband’s fascination and interest.
Clara was aware that Archie’s mistress lived in a handsome house in York Square. By chance Clara had been visiting her milliner who lived opposite, and looking out of the window she had seen Archie’s carriage arrive and wait on the other side of the street. She had been a little surprised; perhaps he was calling for her and had got the address wrong, but no, he looked around, ran up the steps, pressed the bell and was admitted.
Noticing Clara’s interest, Adele, a lady who enjoyed a bit of gossip, whispered: ‘That gentleman is a frequent visitor. And he is not there just to buy perfume.’
In no time at all, Clara heard the full story. The house,
which carried on a flourishing business as a perfumery, was also rumoured to be a high-class brothel, and the madam was a middle-aged woman called Mrs Mavis Rayne.
The milliner went on to say that Mrs Rayne had some very pretty young employees, two of whom were also her own clients. Apparently the gentlemen were all well off and paid for their pleasure in the quiet middle hours of the day when their wives could presume that they would be sitting in their business establishments, poring over dull documents in banks and offices rather than poring over the naked charms of ladies of ill repute.
Adele, without the faintest idea of the reason for Clara’s interest in the house across the way, was always eager to gossip to Mrs Lumbleigh, who was fast becoming her favourite customer. She didn’t belong to those high-and-mighty Edinburgh ladies but had an easy-going manner that made her feel instinctively that they were equals.
A lie from Archie about how he had been visiting his banker that afternoon confirmed Clara’s suspicions. She now knew about Mavis and made it her business to keep a careful eye on that part of Archie’s so-called business life. She decided to hold on to the envelope, certain that Archie would not miss it before she had a chance to peruse its contents, sadly aware that her husband might be far from the respectable model he was so eager to present to Edinburgh society.
And so it was on that day, while Archie was basking in his regained sense of security, Clara sitting by her window upstairs was intrigued to see a well-upholstered veiled lady emerge from a carriage and stride purposefully towards the front door.
The sound of the bell clanged through the house, followed by Mrs Brown’s footsteps through the hall. As she opened the door, the newcomer’s ringing tones echoed upstairs to the banister where Clara stood concealed.
Mavis Rayne – for she it was – demanded to see Mr Lumbleigh immediately.
Mrs Brown gave the standard reply: she would see if the master was at home.
To her horror, the stout woman rudely pushed past her and marched in the direction of Archie’s study. The door opened and banged shut again before Mrs Brown, scuttling behind the interloper, could protest. Raised voices too indistinct to interpret reached Clara’s ears. She hurried downstairs to where a very flustered, outraged housekeeper was heading back to the kitchen.
‘A moment, Mrs Brown. Who was that?’
Mrs Brown, recovering her dignity, said stiffly: ‘A business acquaintance of the master. No name was given, madam.’ With a brief curtsey she retreated into the kitchen. Let Mrs Lumbleigh sort that one out.
Behind the study’s closed door, Archie was on his feet. He could hardly believe his eyes.
‘Mavis!’ he croaked. ‘What the devil are you doing here? I have told you over and over; never – I repeat,
never
– are you to come to this house. This is totally against our agreement,’ he thundered.
‘Whoever made that agreement,’ Mavis said angrily, ‘they didn’t include one that promised protection if my life –
my
life
,’ she repeated, ‘was to be in danger.’
Archie sat down like an exploded balloon. ‘What on earth are you on about?’ he gasped.
Mavis had taken a seat opposite and was unveiling her bonnet. ‘I’ve just been attacked on my way home, outside my own door, returning from an exhibition in George Street. There’s a terrible mist outside which you might not have noticed and a man sprang out from one of the basement areas, where he had been lurking, no doubt. A tall man in a cloak. He grabbed me from behind, tried to throw me down. I expected rape, and as he tried to fling me to the ground, I screamed and prepared for action. I’ve learnt a thing or two about dealing with attempted rapists in my time.’
She stopped for breath, gave him a triumphant look and added, ‘My scream was sufficient, my knee was not needed. A whistle, footsteps, and he was off. A policeman ran towards us and that saved my virtue, if not my life. He had a gun – did I mention that?’
Archie could only listen, shaking his head in horrified bewilderment. ‘This is dreadful, dreadful, Mavis.’
‘Is that all you can say?’
His thoughts were racing ahead. Had Mavis been killed, his secret life would have been revealed. All those cursed policemen invading his privacy once again. The scandal, the newspapers.
He felt suddenly sick.
‘Did he take anything?’
‘He grabbed my reticule, but he dropped it when he ran off. The policeman got it back for me. No time to steal anything valuable—’
Something to be grateful for at least, and Archie interrupted: ‘You must not be seen here, Mavis.’ He gulped. ‘My wife – she must not know of your existence.’
It was too late. Overcome by curiosity, her presence shielded by their angry voices, Clara had opened the door a fraction and listened to the conversation.
Armed by a false sense of security, Archie said to Mavis: ‘Come, I will take you home.’
Mavis smiled. ‘I hoped you would. I kept the carriage. It’s waiting.’
A sigh of relief. Brown was away on an errand, and he could rely on Brown who was honest and reliable. Thank God, he thought, heading back home again and paying off the hiring cab. Brown knew about those visits to York Square, but the coachman’s discretion was well paid for, and he also benefited from expensive second-hand clothes from his wealthy employer’s extensive wardrobe, the envy of Mrs Brown, who observed elegant items from Mrs Lumbleigh’s wardrobe, which would have never fitted her by any stretch of imagination, all heading in the lady’s maid’s direction.
As Archie went indoors, he regarded the front windows anxiously, hoping that Clara had not been in the garden and would not question him as he considered a selection of valid excuses. What would a veiled lady want with him? Perhaps the widow of a business colleague with shares to invest, in need of helpful advice.
Yes, that would do excellently, that was the most convincing, but as they sat down to dinner he was relieved that no excuses were needed. Clara never mentioned the incident. He sighed with relief, perhaps she had been taking an afternoon rest and had missed the disturbance entirely.
Paul joined them. ‘Heard the latest?’
Archie, involved with his own troubles, looked up
anxiously for an instant. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the police out on the hill, swarms of them?’ said Paul.
And before Archie could digest that monstrous presence so close to home once more, Paul picked up his knife and fork and said: ‘The local Catholic priest seems to have gone missing. I met DC Faro roaming about near the back garden. I gather he hasn’t been seen for a couple of days.’
A sharp exclamation of concern from Clara who wanted to know more. ‘I met him. He conducted Ida’s funeral service. Just a young fellow. Seemed so nice and sensitive. Oh dear, I wonder what can have happened to him.’
Archie groaned at this painful reminder. Damn Faro and all the rest of the Edinburgh City Police. Was Lumbleigh Green never to be free of association with a table maid’s murder?
Paul was saying: ‘Searching the hill in the mist hasn’t been much use.’ And looking at Archie: ‘The gardens will be in line for a search – just a routine matter,’ he added, enjoying his stepfather’s discomfort.
‘Can’t we be spared that?’ Archie said angrily and Paul smiled and left them.
Some time later, Brown reported to Archie that Master Paul had met him parking the carriage and that they had made a thorough search of the extensive gardens. There was no place where the missing priest could have hidden had he wanted to do so.
‘I reported this to the beat constable, sir, and this information was duly noted. He assured me that we would not be troubled any further, sir.’
This reassurance fell a little short of its mark and Archie merely shook his head and murmured: ‘When will it all end?’
And in the Central Office, PC Jansen, who had saved Mavis in the nick of time, had duly reported that incident. It was now reposing on the desk between Faro and Gosse who thumped his fists together in a gesture of triumph: ‘At last – a breakthrough. We’ve got him at last.’
‘Have we, sir?’
‘Don’t you see? Sounds like the man who attacked Jock Webb,’ he said eagerly, then frowned. ‘Maybe it
was
Jock Webb. Have you thought of that? Never been sure of him, high on the list of suspects. Get down there and check his movements last night. And see this woman – this Mrs Rayne.’
Meanwhile, at home with her girls, who had listened horrified to this story, Mavis, who was removing the contents of her retrieved reticule into another, discovered something she had overlooked the first time.
A playing card. How on earth had it got there? She rarely played cards at all and it was the first time she had used this new reticule, an accessory bought specially to match her new velvet outfit for the art exhibition.
She looked at the card with distaste. Her attacker must have put it in there. But why?
Who knows and who cares, she said, and flung it into the fire.