Enter Second Murderer (15 page)

This revelation did not please Faro. It merely emphasised what he already suspected—that his regard for Mrs. Aird was by no means mutual. She obviously did not consider him an attractive proposition and had never thought of him in the role of prospective husband.

When they were alone with the tea and scones before them, Mrs. Aird said, "Did you return to Fairmilehead to find the missing lady?"

"I did. The reason for her apparent deception had an innocent explanation."

"Did I not tell you so? Was I not right?" asked Mrs. Aird triumphantly.

"In part, yes." And Faro was suddenly aware that a successful detective might benefit from a woman in his life, an intelligent woman whose interpretation of the occasional astonishingly irrational behaviour of her sex could be relied upon.

"Your business with the lady is at an end, then?"

"Indeed, I hope so." Faro decided he was not going to waste precious time with Alison Aird's polite interest in his investigations. "Am I to understand that you are to be leaving us soon?"

"Yes. Mr. Trelawney and the company are booked into Bournemouth for the summer season."

Faro's heart felt unnaturally heavy as he said, "I shall miss you."

She smiled. "I know."

Did it follow that she would also miss him? He followed up his advantage. "It seems sometimes as if I have known you for a very long time," he said breathlessly, aware that he had said the wrong thing, for she merely inclined her head, smiled and said, "You are very kind."

"Will you be sorry to leave Edinburgh?"

She stared out of the window towards the Pentland Hills. "Not really. I have been here since spring, a whole season. That is a long time for me to spend acting in the same theatre. Normally, it is two weeks and then on the road again."

Her bleak tones aroused a dismal picture of the drudgery that lies behind those magnificent hours on stage portraying the great Shakespearean roles.

"I know so little about you," he said helplessly, out of his depth. Where was his customary dignity? Even to his own ears, he heard the desperate note of the lovelorn who expects no mercy.

There was none. "What is the point, when the chances are that we will never meet again?" As though conscious of her cruelty, she put out her hand and, touching his arm, said softly, "You know enough about me, Inspector," and, as a sop for his stricken expression, "far more than most of the men I meet during my travels. Now, have another of Mrs. Penny's scones. Of course you must, they will have been counted and she'll be mortally offended if they are not eaten. Here you are, see, I have buttered it for you."

He groaned inwardly at this sweet domestic gesture. It struck a chord almost forgotten, for Lizzie always buttered his bread. Never had he felt so alone, so in need of a woman's love and cherishing.

"Are we not even to be friends?"

"Friends? Of course we will be friends, if that will make you happy, for the short time I have left in Edinburgh." She looked at him, head on one side, smiling, as if she could picture such an association and it pleased her. "Yes, I would like that very much, Inspector."

"Then may I beg that you call me by my first name?"

"Of course." She put a hand to her mouth. "Oh dear, I think I have forgotten what it is."

"It's Jeremiah—my mother had a passion for biblical names, but I shortened it long ago to Jeremy."

"Jeremy," she repeated softly. "I like it. It makes you sound like a little boy."

Faro thought sourly that was not at all the impression he had hoped for, as she added, with a shake of the head, "No more Mrs. Aird—Alison, if you please. And now that we have our friendship well and truly launched, what were we talking about?"

"Your feelings about leaving Edinburgh."

"Oh yes. Perhaps I have been too harsh in my judgement, since we have been most fortunate with our audiences. Most nights we have played to full houses. Granted the theatre is small and has many drawbacks in the way of scenery and lights, but there is something very satisfying about an enthusiastic audience. And ours, though mostly students, have been so appreciative and kind. Especially the English and Classics students. And we have even entertained classes from the senior schools—a most rewarding experience."

"You mention students. May I then ask you something personal?"

"Of course." But her expression was guarded.

"The very first time we met was in Greyfriars Kirkyard. You were wearing a grey cloak and a hat with a heavy grey veil, which got caught in the shrubbery."

Her expression went completely blank, and for a heart-stopping moment Faro thought she was about to deny it. And if she had, he realised that he would have readily agreed and might even have pretended that he had been mistaken.

But at last she nodded. "How strange. I wondered—afterwards, when we met again at the theatre—if you could possibly be my rescuer. Remember, I caught only a glimpse of your face in my involvement with my insecure bonnet."

And the dangerous moment over, they both laughed. "How extraordinary that we should meet again."

Faro didn't think it in the least extraordinary, but her good-natured admission led him to ask, rather more sharply than he should, "You knew Timothy Ferris?"

A sharp intake of breath and her eyes filled with sudden tears. "Yes, I did. I cannot tell you—he was—he was—like the son I never had. He came to the theatre regularly and it began like so many of my young admirers. Boys who imagine they are in love with me." She laughed. "And I as old as their mothers, even if I can play Juliet on stage. Age seems to make no difference to their devotion."

"'Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety,'" quoted Faro. "Shakespeare could have written those words with you in mind."

"You flatter me, but I am no Cleopatra—and I am well aware of the fact." She sighed. "Poor Timon. I called him that, after Timon of Athens. I liked it better than Timothy. He was so attentive, so devoted. And in the end I had to send him away."

She was silent, and Faro saw that she was trembling. "I little realised that I was destroying him. You know how it ended, that awful, awful death. And I was responsible—"

Sobs racked her and Faro took her in his arms, murmured the same soothing words he used to little Rose and Emily. "Hush, my dear. Hush, you mustn't carry this guilt. It was not your fault that he died."

"It was, it was."

"It wasn't, Alison. Listen to me." And he tilted her weeping face towards him. Gently, he put his lips to her cheek, with the bitter-sweet salt taste of her tears. As he smoothed back her hair, and she took out her handkerchief and blew her nose, he thought what a relief his next words would be to her. Maybe—maybe she would be so grateful that she might even love him a little.

"You see, Alison, we have it on very good authority that Tim Ferris wanted to marry Lily Goldie..."

Her eyes slid away from him. "You mean—that girl—who died?"

"Exactly. It was because she refused him, discovered that he had been leading her on to believe he had a fortune. Then, when she learned he was penniless, she sent him packing. You see, he apparently had quite a good allowance from some benefactor or other, but when he failed his qualifying exams—so Vince tells me—this was withdrawn. He had always lived beyond his means, gambling, drinking, impressing Miss Goldie. When he knew that was all over, that's why he took his own life."

Alison stared at him, took a deep breath and then cried out, "Oh God, dear God. All that pain, all that agony—and no one to comfort him."

The door opened a sliver and they both turned round.

"I thought I heard you call for more tea, Mrs. Aird," said Mrs. Penny, her excuse paper-thin. Obviously she had heard the sobbing, and curiosity as to what was going on in her parlour, where her boarder was at the mercy of a gentleman caller, had overcome her.

Alison managed a bright smile and disentangled herself from Faro's arm. "No, thank you, Mrs. Penny. That was delicious."

"Delicious," echoed Faro.

Mrs. Penny was reluctant to move. She frowned, looking suspiciously from one to the other.

"Mr. Faro is just leaving," said Alison, holding out her hand with a dazzling smile, calculated to convince her landlady that nothing untoward had been happening behind that closed door. "I will see Mr. Faro out, thank you, Mrs. Penny."

At the front door, they were both silent, staring up at Arthur's Seat agleam in the afternoon sunshine.

Faro took both her hands, held them tightly. "Just one more question, and then this painful subject will never be mentioned between us again, I promise."

She looked at him squarely. "If you must."

"Did you ever meet Tim's young brother?"

"His young brother?" she repeated.

"Yes, we understand he is a boarder at St. Leonard's."

Alison thought for a moment, then shook her head. "I didn't know that. He never mentioned a brother. But that doesn't surprise me. He took a certain pride in being an orphan."

Mrs. Penny poked her head out, her curiosity further aroused by this prolonged doorstep conversation. "See and not get cold, Mrs. Aird, dear. Remember your voice now."

Alison gave him an impish smile and hastily released her hands, which he still held.

"May I see you again?" he whispered.

"Are you not coming to
The Merchant
? There are some free seats available and Mr. Trelawney's Shylock is very credible," she said with a mischievous glance. "The character offers such marvellous possibilities for over-acting."

"If you are playing Portia ..."

"I am . . ."

"Then I will come."

Far below them, the little horse-drawn train arrived at St. Leonard's Station.

"I have always promised myself to take a journey along that railway," said Alison. "I believe it goes to Musselburgh, and the seaside is so tempting. It is what one misses most without children. It must be years since I built a sandcastle, or dipped my toes in the ocean."

"Then you need wait no longer. May I take you there on Sunday?"

"Oh, would you do that? Please! I shall get Mrs. Penny to provide us with a picnic hamper." And clasping her hands together like a little child, "I shall so look forward to Sunday. Thank you—thank you, Jeremy. You have made me so happy."

Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. And Faro walked towards Sheridan Place in a daze. Occasionally he touched the place her lips had caressed and considered himself the luckiest fellow in the whole world, from the day Alison Aird had walked into his life and he had decided to re-investigate the murder of Lily Goldie.

Content surged through him, a great wave of bliss, and he looked forward to retiring quietly to his study with its firelight glowing on his rows of books, his familiar chair and his desk. Always untidy, resisting strongly all Mrs. Brook's determination to restore order, it was a lonely widower's retreat, heaven or hell, according to his mood. But it was his very own special place, where he could close the shutters against the unhappy world he inhabited by day. There he could seek refuge from his own troubles in some other time or place, in the worlds portrayed in the novels of Sir Walter Scott or Mr. Charles Dickens. And there he could now weave his own dreams, more promising than any pages of a novel, about Alison Aird.

Chapter 12

St Leonard's School was less than twenty years old, but it already smelled of boiled cabbage and wet wood, a familiar odour that Faro associated with boys' schools. It took him back to the Kirkwall of his childhood.

Everything about Headmaster Benjamin Lochhead was larger than life, from his booming voice to his flowing white beard, which instantly transformed him into an Old Testament patriarch. His parents, long dead, had shown a certain lack of insight when they chose his first name, whose initial immediately registered with several gleeful decades of boys and earned him the nickname "Old Blockhead". He received Faro in his lofty panelled study, an awesome place where white busts of Socrates, Homer and other scholastic worthies gazed down sternly from their high pedestals.

"Please be seated, Mr. Faro. Perhaps you would like to glance over our prospectus. What age is the young gentleman?"

"Fourteen or fifteen."

The Headmaster frowned. "A difficult age, but one we can readily accommodate," he added hastily.

"Headmaster, before we go any further, I must tell you that I am not Mr. Faro, about to deliver a new pupil into your regime. I am Detective Inspector Faro of the Edinburgh City Police and I am here to make enquiries about a boy already with you."

The patriarch froze, his hand in mid-air, suddenly an ungenial Santa Claus. His voice was icy. "And what misdemeanours have my boys committed? Surely it is no serious crime which brings you to my establishment?" he added sardonically.

As Faro tried to give him a brief outline of the Gruesome Convent Murders, he found his placatory speech sounding thinner than ever.

The Headmaster made an impatient gesture. "Yes, yes, Inspector. I have read the case." He gave him a long glance. "A private investigation—at the request of the unfortunate victim's relatives, you say. I do not see what my school can possibly contribute."