Authors: Alanna Knight
Faro was on his way to York Square to interview Mrs Mavis Rayne. As he climbed the front steps of the handsome Georgian house, somewhere inside a dog barked shrilly and the door was opened by the lady herself.
His uniform explained his presence, no explanation was needed.
‘Come in, Constable. I was expecting you.’
She gathered up the tiny white poodle and he followed her down through the hall into her study, somewhat overwhelmed by the heavy odour of perfumes and the vast array of scent bottles and other evidence of female toilette around him.
Noticing his somewhat startled glance she smiled. ‘You will have observed, no doubt, that I am a perfumer by profession, Constable. Do sit down.’ She took a seat in the armchair opposite, and cradling the little dog she looked him over candidly. Always glad to appreciate the presence of a handsome young man, this one was exceptional.
However, she decided that the circumstances demanded that she sternly control her natural impulses and she must not flirt or even flutter her long eyelashes.
Faro was finding the atmosphere of femininity daunting enough but he already knew a great deal about Mrs Rayne. He was aware, as were most of his colleagues, that this business also concealed one of Edinburgh’s high-class brothels. But this was not his concern as Mrs Rayne said:
‘The attack was an attempted rape, Constable.’ With a shuddering sigh she added, ‘And the man also held a gun to the back of my skull. I will not easily forget the feel of that either. I was fortunate to escape with my life as well as my virtue …’
As Mavis went through the details she had given Archie once again, Faro carefully made notes, and at the end of her account, since it was almost identical to that of PC Jansen, he asked: ‘Was there anything particular you observed about this man’s appearance, madam?’
Mavis laughed scornfully. ‘I was not in a position for observation, Constable, since he was behind me with an arm about my throat.’
‘Are we to understand, then, that you might not be able to identify him, should we succeed in arresting him?’
Mavis shook her head. ‘When your constable approached, he ran off, looked round briefly and, although I was unable to see his face clearly, he was tall – about your height, Constable. And I thought he had a cap pulled down well over his eyes, the lower part of his face hidden.’ She thought for a moment. ‘One thing I did notice, though: if you will forgive the indelicacy, he was more than a bit smelly. He stank.’
As she made a face, Faro said: ‘Was it alcohol, or just uncleanliness, body sweat?’
Mavis shrugged, stroking the poodle. ‘More like a dog, like Pip here – when he gets wet. Yes, that’s it – wet wool.’ Faro’s eyebrows raised at that and she laughed. ‘I have an exceptional sense of smell, Constable, that is why I am a perfumer. I can instantly detect the merest hint of any odour and also identify it,’ she added.
And Faro, hoping that he smelt of shaving soap and keenly aware that he was only two days away from Mrs Biggs’ sternly regulated bath night, solemnly wrote ‘the attacker smelt of wet wool’ in his report.
Closing his notebook, about to leave, he turned at the door and thanking Mrs Rayne for her assistance, said: ‘Should you remember anything else, however trivial, please let us know, as it may help us to track this man down.’
Mavis thought for a moment. ‘There was something … well, rather odd. He snatched my reticule as you know, but PC Jansen recovered it a few yards away. When I checked the contents there was nothing missing only’ – she shrugged – ‘there was something added. A playing card.’
On the step Faro turned swiftly. ‘One of yours?’
Mavis shook her head. ‘No, I’d never seen it before. I don’t carry packs of cards in my reticule, Constable.’
‘What kind of a card was it, madam?’
Mavis shrugged. ‘A red one, hearts? I’m not absolutely certain but I think it was a diamond.’
‘The denomination?’ Faro asked sharply, the nine already taking shape in his mind.
She shook her head. ‘All I recognised was that it wasn’t
one of the face cards. A number.’ She shrugged. ‘I just threw it in the fire. But odd, isn’t it, how it got there?’
Odd indeed, thought Faro. And sinister too for he did not doubt that the card had been the nine of diamonds. Touching his helmet, he left Mrs Rayne, who watched him go with some regret.
She didn’t meet young men like this every day and would have enjoyed his company over a cup of tea, or more, over a drink.
As for Faro, he was wondering what would have been her reaction to the knowledge that her potential rapist had already killed two young women, had been frustrated in his attempted murder of an elderly man and was perhaps the killer of a missing priest.
In the Central Office, Gosse poured scorn on Faro’s report of his interview with Mavis Rayne.
Faro insisted: ‘I feel there is more in it than attempted rape. Those individuals might carry a knife just to press the point, as it were, but not a gun. Then there was the playing card.’
‘Which the lady was unable to identify for certain, just vaguely – hearts or diamonds.’
‘I still feel that its existence at the scene links her attacker to our murderer.’
Gosse waved a dismissive hand. ‘What kind of evidence is that, pray? A playing card she threw into the fire. You’re wasting your time again, Faro – and mine,’ he added, although Faro would have thought the latter was far from evident since Gosse seemed quite happy to spend his days comfortably seated in an armchair, apparently brooding over a mass of paper on Inspector Wade’s desk.
When the sergeant said: ‘You’d better get back on the
track of Jock Webb, check his alibi for the time of the assault,’ Faro had a shrewd idea that Gosse had already made up his mind on the killer’s identity, hoping that his detective constable would solve the crimes, and ready to claim full credit for anything that Faro unearthed as evidence.
What Faro did not know as he made his way towards Liberton Brae was that Gosse had been humiliated by Lizzie; his one move at extending their policeman-witness relationship on to a more personal basis by kissing her had received an angry retort, a sharp slap. Her face scarlet, her voice cold, she fought off his embrace. All friendly smiles had vanished for ever as she jumped out of the carriage and said:
‘May I remind you, Sergeant, that you have overstepped the line between witness and policeman. I have verified in our meetings all the evidence you could possibly require and that, as far as I am concerned, is the end of it. I shall not be available for further meetings with you.’
Rubbing his still stinging cheek, Gosse was furious and the failure to seduce Faro’s young lady, his original spiteful plan for ousting Faro, had blossomed into something deeper, an obsession, an infatuation that might be regarded by some as love for Lizzie Laurie. His feelings were those of a rejected lover and did not endear him to his bitter rival whom he now blamed entirely for Lizzie slapping his face. How dare Mrs Laurie prefer Faro to himself?
On the way to Liberton Brae, the rain that had been threatening all morning turned into a deluge. With no
place to shelter, Faro looked round as a carriage stopped alongside. The driver was Brown, under a large umbrella. The door opened and Clara Lumbleigh looked out, Lizzie at her side.
‘Can we drop you off somewhere? We’re heading to Bonnyrigg.’
Lizzie looked over her shoulder, smiled at him.
‘Thank you but I’m just a step away, up the hill here.’
‘Then jump up, get under Brown’s umbrella.’
Faro was grateful for that brief shelter as a hundred yards ahead he indicated Jock Webb’s door. As he stepped down Lizzie leant forward and blew him a kiss. He shouted: ‘I’ll see you this evening.’
‘I’ll be waiting for you.’ And Lizzie sat back, smiling, content. ‘If that is convenient for you, madam,’ she added anxiously.
Clara nodded and smiled. ‘Of course, my dear. Glad we were able to rescue your young man. Not much fun having to walk miles in the rain.’
Lizzie sighed, wishing her young man was more than that, wishing with all her heart that she had a more official public role in Faro’s life. Then the horrible embarrassing incident with the sergeant might not have happened. She told herself that the future did not really matter as long as all her days continued to be linked together, strung along with the prospect of meeting Jeremy. She closed her eyes; today was enough and tomorrow was still all she had to hope for.
From the doorway Faro watched the departing carriage through the rain. With that unexpected meeting, just those
few words between them, he was overwhelmed by a sudden longing to be with Lizzie again, a need for her tender, gentle presence in this turmoil of his life.
Footsteps approaching and the door was opened by Annie who regarded his uniform and the request to see Mr Webb somewhat doubtfully.
‘Just a few words to finalise our report. I won’t detain him long,’ he added encouragingly.
‘Then you’d better come in. Jock’s having a wee nap.’ She stood aside and led the way into the kitchen, its atmosphere heavy with the smell of drying clothes, the fire totally obscured by a clothes horse. Pointing to it she said: ‘This weather’s just awful and Jock’s cape takes up all the fire drying. Won’t be parted from it, got soaked through twice. Last night he was out again drinking with friends.’ Faro detected a note of disapproval as she sighed.
‘It’ll never dry in time. We’re off shortly to an anniversary party in Penicuik.’
A door opened and Jock emerged, bleary-eyed, his dishevelled condition suggesting a more than ordinary hangover.
‘Oh, it’s you. Thought I heard voices. And what d’ye want this time, Constable?’ he demanded shortly.
There was no way of phrasing the obvious question. ‘We wondered if there had been any follow-up to the attack on you, sir. If you’d had any reactions, or possibly even remembered something about your attacker. That he might be local and you had seen him around.’
Jock laughed harshly. ‘If I’d seen him around you’d have heard about that, Constable. I’d have knocked the bugger’s head off, that’s what.’
‘Sorry to disturb you like this, sir,’ Faro said apologetically, ‘but there has been another incident.’
Jock was interested. He said sharply, ‘Has there? Where?’
‘He’s attacked a woman in York Square and her description fits closely to the one you gave us.’
‘York Square, eh?’ Jock laughed. ‘Well, well!’ A nod and a wink. ‘Known for its upper-class whores, even in my day,’ he chuckled.
‘The lady was lucky to escape with her life,’ Faro said.
‘Wait a bit,’ said Jock. ‘Now I know why you’re here. What you really want to know is whether I was telling the truth first time round. You and that sergeant never believed my story, did you?’
Faro looked embarrassed, somewhat taken aback by this astute rejoinder as Jock continued: ‘I was out with my cronies. Went to a pub or two – or three. They’ll tell you, that is if any of them can remember.’ Pausing he scratched his head. ‘And I’m damned if I can remember myself, who was there or where any of them lived.’
It wasn’t much as an alibi and it would be tortuous indeed to verify. As Faro again apologised for disturbing him and prepared to leave, Jock said forgivingly: ‘All I still remember that sticks in my mind was when I was attacked this man was wearing an Inverness cape,’ he pointed to the clothes horse, ‘like mine over there, Harris tweed, best there is but takes a devil of a time to dry.’
Heading out again into the rain, faced with the rain-soaked walk back into the city, without hope of a rescuing carriage this time, he went over what Webb had been saying. And in the deep roots of that retentive memory, something clicked …
The rain had eased and meeting Jeremy was for Lizzie the one gleam of sunshine in a grey dismal evening. Her smile was radiant as she walked out of the door of Lumbleigh Green and saw him waiting at the gate. The feeling was mutual, but there was an unusual awkwardness and conversations begun eagerly died suddenly. Topics were searched for, picked up and dropped. Silences only broken by the sound of their footsteps across wet pavements.
Faro remembered their last meeting, how elated he had felt, almost ready to ask Lizzie to share the rest of his life. That moment had vanished and now Lizzie seemed almost a stranger. Oddly enough, if they had been able to read each other’s minds, Faro would have found Lizzie having the same thoughts of being somehow let down. In her case, with a sense of generosity regarding Jeremy’s shortcomings as a suitor, she put it down to preoccupation regarding some new investigation, details of which he could not, of course, share with her.
The rain, which they had regarded as a threat to the evening together, began again, increasingly heavy, and sheltering in a doorway Faro shrugged.
‘It’s no use, Lizzie. We will have to call it off. We’re both getting drenched. Best head home.’ He stepped forward, hailed a passing hiring cab. Pressing a coin into the driver’s hand he said: ‘Take this lady to Lumbleigh Green, if you please.’ Ignoring her protests, he kissed her, handed her into the cab and whispered: ‘I will see you again very soon.’ With that she had to be content.
Faro returned to his lodgings. As he was removing his wet coat Mrs Biggs looked out of her parlour and said: ‘You’re like a drowned rat, Mr Faro. Let me take that
coat. I’ll put it by the fire and it will soon dry. What awful weather, even for Edinburgh.’
Thanking her, he received a disarming smile. ‘I’ve just made a pot of tea.’ And pointing to the kitchen, ‘And there’s a slice of pie needing eating,’ she whispered. ‘But don’t tell the others. A good landlady doesn’t have favourites, you know.’ But the arch look which accompanied that statement belied her words.
For once, he found it easy to talk to Mrs Biggs, easier in fact with this woman he hardly knew at all than with his Lizzie, much to the landlady’s delight. She encouraged him to a second cup of tea and watched him finish the pie which he proclaimed ‘delicious’. Questioning him about Orkney, she leaned forward across the table, listening wide-eyed as if it was an unexplored planet, further away than darkest Africa.
An hour later, footsteps outside declared the noisy return of his fellow lodgers, so snatching his jacket he thanked her and fled upstairs before the first key had turned in the lock.
The weather was abominable, even worse than usual with eternal rain or heavy mist, and with images of constables unhappy as drowned rats searching for the missing priest, of Clara and Lizzie in their carriage, the meeting with Jock Webb, coming home drenched, glad of Mrs Biggs’ restoring cup of tea, the warm fire and smell of cooking and drying clothes, Faro tried to order his thoughts.
Troubled, he was becoming increasingly aware that he was getting precisely nowhere with this murder investigation in which Gosse seemed to have lost all interest, but would doubtless put in an appearance to claim he had solved it – eventually.
As he prepared for bed, he solemnly regarded his still damp jacket, his mind going over the day’s events, the thought niggling away at the back of his mind that he had touched the first clue of any significance that led to the killer’s identity. Fighting off the desire to sleep, he picked up a pen, and as was his method with all cases, he drew out a sheet of paper, took out his notebook and went back to the beginning, trying to give substance to an idea built out of circumstances surrounding the killings.
A few minutes later he sat back, yawned. A church clock nearby struck eleven; an early start called next morning at 6.30. It was useless. His mind refused to function, his eyelids grew heavy. He couldn’t fight off sleep any longer. It overwhelmed him, he knew when he was defeated. The vital clue remained a vague shadow.