Murders Most Foul (10 page)

Yes, indeed, there had been a real panic. Not only had Beau Garde the main singer walked out, but two dancers had also left without notice. Stormed out in fact. Offered a chance of a season with a big show in Glasgow, they said.

So that was why Migley was so upset, thought Faro, not guilt after all, and he felt a moment’s pity for the manager’s feelings of being let down, of betrayal. No wonder he had been so eager to consider the prospect of a replacement baritone. Migley would have had to add disappointment to his feelings, since Faro couldn’t sing a note in tune.

‘These two girls, did they share lodgings?’ Jimmy looked thoughtful as Faro went on: ‘Can you give me an address? Their landlady might know their whereabouts, or have a forwarding address?’

Jimmy shook his head. ‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid.’ But a sharp look, eyeing him shrewdly, and Faro realised that his questions might be misunderstood, as the doorman went on: ‘Have they done something wrong, then?’

‘Not at all. It’s a missing persons enquiry. Family anxious, you know the sort of thing.’

Jimmy nodded. ‘That’s it, is it? Aye, well as far as I know all three were heading for the Glasgow Hippodrome.’

Thanking him, Faro left considering his next move. Glasgow. That meant taking the train, a whole day there and back. But first he must report to Gosse and get his approval.

And that was easier than he had anticipated. As he told Gosse about the interview with the theatre manager, Gosse nodded, frowning, obviously preoccupied with other matters.

‘Remember that Rickels fraud case we were investigating before these murders needed our full attention?’

And pushing across a letter, ‘Well, here it is. Summoned by the court. Unfortunately I can’t go and leave matters unattended at a crucial stage of our enquiries. So I have written a report and you will need to deliver it in my place. You can look into the Hippodrome, but I’ll bet you’ll find that both girls are there. So much for your wild theory that the woman in Fleshers Close was an actress,’ he ended with a hoarse laugh.

After delivering last-minute instructions, the sergeant watched him leave. As the door closed he rubbed his hands and chortled with delight. He had his own reasons for welcoming an excuse to send Faro off to Glasgow.

And that included his hopeful wooing of Lizzie Laurie.

Faro loved trains. They were the marvel of the age. Sitting back in a speeding carriage and being carried across the countryside through a constantly moving landscape without making the slightest effort was a rare luxury when every day’s duty in Edinburgh meant walking mile after weary mile on foot.

The sun shone through the window, reflecting a glowing scene of tiny farms, tranquil hamlets and mellow fields surrounded by leafy hollows already making the dramatic change into autumn splendour.

Smiling to himself he decided this was bliss indeed as the palace of Linlithgow, birthplace of his beloved heroine, tragic, beautiful Mary Queen of Scots, filled the horizon to vanish behind a cloud of smoke as the train gathered steam.

Relaxing in his seat, he considered how long this journey would have taken by coach or horseback – the latter he avoided whenever possible, never having
overcome his fears of the unpredictability of horses when faced with an emergency. A fear that had its roots in the childhood memory of his policeman father’s death under the wheels of a runaway carriage on Edinburgh’s Mound.

All too soon, as far as he was concerned, the journey was over as tall buildings and church spires staring down from either side of the railway line announced that they were approaching their destination … All that remained was the final negotiation on the track’s approach through the Cowlairs Incline where the train was hauled up through a deep rock cutting and tunnel, by a cable attached to a steam winding engine.

A few minutes later and the train puffed to rest at a platform in the handsome surroundings of Queen Street Station. Originally named Dundas Street, opened almost twenty years ago in 1842 as the western terminus of the Edinburgh and Glasgow Railway, built on the site of the once opulent Crawford Mansion with its extensive grounds, the station stood on the northern threshold of George Square, the magnificent heart of the city of Glasgow …

As he stepped out into the sunshine on his way to the City Chambers, he remembered how proud Glaswegians were of this square laid out in the 1780s as an elite residential development on the city’s western edge. It had been named in honour of King George III, and Robert and James Adam had prepared plans for a handsome terrace on its south side. It was never built and the last of the site’s earlier impressive homes had disappeared when one-time residents, such as the thread-making Coats brothers
of Paisley, had moved out. The private gardens were now used as a public thoroughfare while all that remained of the grandeur of the surrounding buildings was represented by the Georgian architecture of the Copthorne Hotel and the front garden of the City Chambers, where Faro was to present the report on the fraud case investigated by DS Gosse and himself earlier that year.

This should not take long, he decided, as he climbed the steps and was ushered in the right direction of the meeting. Perhaps half an hour and then he would be free to make enquiries at the Hippodrome Theatre regarding the three artistes who had left Migley’s vaudeville show, hoping to discover that his theory was right and only two of the trio had ever reached Glasgow.

Ushered by a clerk into the boardroom where the meeting was taking place he went to join the men seated around the table. Taking a vacant seat, he glanced at the agenda and awaited his turn, finding the other topics were of local interest and some made little sense for him to follow even if he had so wished. The tendency was for the chairman to expound at length, and as several of the gentlemen obviously loved the sound of their own voices Faro began to despair at the passage of precious hours.

Whether his visit to the Hippodrome would confirm his suspicions with a sense of triumph or not, a prolonged meeting threatened to end a long-awaited chance of exploring Sauchiehall Street’s elegant terraces and villas before catching the last train back to Edinburgh. It was not to be. When at last the Rickels fraud case was reached, there was an interruption and a note was delivered to the chairman. Looking across at Faro, he
read out the message. Owing to the sudden indisposition of the defendant, this case on the agenda would have to be postponed.

Disappointed and preparing to leave, Faro was drawn aside by the solicitor who whispered that as the time had been reset for the following morning, he had better remain, take lodging for the night and that a telegraph explaining the situation would be sent to DS Gosse.

Outside with the sun still blameless in an azure sky and the mellow shadows of late afternoon across George Square, Faro gave a great sigh – of delight. Another day was an unexpected holiday, to explore the delights of a city so unlike Edinburgh. Somehow warmer, kinder he decided, with citizens who smiled upon this stranger who asked for directions to the theatre after he had twice got lost on the way.

At last, walking up the steps, he was told the matinee performance was almost at an end. As he was too late for that, would he care for a ticket for the evening one? Declining, he explained that he wished to speak to the manager.

He was in luck. Mr Dobson was to be found in his office. The welcome he received was polite and genial. What could he do for him? Mr Dobson was less shocked than Migley had been at the information that the enquirer was a policeman from Edinburgh.

‘Sit ye down, officer. Something to drink, perhaps?’

A thirsty Faro declined alcohol in the course of duty. As he explained his mission, omitting that it was a murder case and explaining it was merely a missing persons enquiry, a
soft drink produced from the cupboard was poured into a glass and set before him.

The manager listened, frowned. ‘Aye, we have artistes just joined us from Edinburgh, right enough. Two of them, a singer and his lady friend, a dancer.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you’ve made the journey for nothing, officer. Your missing actress didn’t come to us. You could try the Glasgow Fair, though.’ He hesitated. ‘They have sideshows, that sort of thing, a bit of a reputation. Maybe not the kind of setting for a reputable artiste, if you ken what I mean. Tell you what—’ A distant sound of applause reached them. ‘That’s the show finished – you could speak to Beau and Jane, they might have some information that would help you. Come with me.’

Faro followed him into the wings, where the performers were taking their final bow. He had never been as close to a stage before and the excitement, the greasepaint, the drama of it all was a new and thrilling experience. As they all hurried past, chatting, laughing, teasing one another, curious and admiring looks from the dancers came his way. Stepping forward, Dobson congratulated a young man. ‘You were in great voice tonight, Beau.’

Beau looked pleased as Dobson went on: ‘Jane too. She’s a great addition to our girls.’ Then taking Faro’s arm without mentioning that he was a policeman, he said: ‘This gentleman is here about an actress who left Edinburgh at the same time as you.’

Beau smiled. ‘You mean Doris Page.’ He shook his head. ‘She didn’t come with us.’

A pretty girl on her way to the dressing room had seen them and, curiosity aroused, came over. Wearing the teasing
bespangled costume of a high-kicking chorus girl, she was introduced as Jane by Dobson and also congratulated for her performance. She dimpled at that. She listened carefully as Faro’s presence was again explained and the manager was suddenly called away by one of the stagehands.

Jane took Beau’s arm and frowned. ‘No, Doris didn’t come with us. She wanted to stay in Edinburgh. She has a wee girl, you know.’

While Faro felt that this fitted neatly into his theory regarding the identity of the dead woman in Fleshers Close, Jane looked uncomfortable, by which he guessed that Doris was probably unmarried. ‘Didn’t want to leave her with strangers.’

‘Have you any idea where she was going?’

Jane shook her head. ‘She didn’t get on with old Migley. He was always, well, chasing her, trying to get his hands on her.’ Jane shuddered and Beau grinned. ‘He was like that, always wanted his pound of flesh, if you know what I mean.’

Jane made a face. ‘Well, Doris got fed up and they had a row. Told me she’d find something else. That was a couple of weeks before we left.’

Faro thanked her for her information, and given Doris’s last address at the Edinburgh lodging she had shared with Jane, he took his leave. Mixed with a sense of triumph, he felt sadness for a broken life, and seeing again the face of that little girl at the murder scene, he determined to make further enquiries to see what had happened to her.

Walking back towards the square he wondered if they now had another murder suspect. Was it possible that Migley had killed Doris Page? Gosse, he knew, would
jubilantly seize upon this new piece of information, but hopeful as it might be, it seemed very unlikely that Migley had also murdered Ida. He remembered that game of solitaire, the playing cards spread on the table. But that seemed an unlikely clue. Not by any stretch of imagination could Migley fit Ida’s handsome, wealthy young lover (as whispered to Lizzie), nor did the description tally with the brutal man who attacked Jock Webb.

A stranger in this bustling city, he had no idea where to find cheap lodgings and as the Copthorne Hotel loomed ahead he decided to book a room for the night, hopeful that he could reclaim this as necessary expenses. If not, he did not really care – this was a once in a lifetime chance to enjoy the luxury of a splendid hotel.

As he made his way across to the reception area to book a room, a woman was walking in front of him towards the restaurant. A slim, young and lovely woman with long black hair.

His heart missed a beat. He knew that graceful lithe step. All his senses recognised this answer to all his dreams, and some of his nightmares too.

‘Inga!’ he called.

And Inga St Ola halted, swung round to face him.

Faro was speechless; he blinked again.

Inga? Impossible, a figment of his overactive imagination. But here she was, walking towards him, her light footsteps on the polished floor. She was smiling, holding out her hands in welcome.

‘Jeremy Faro! What on earth are you doing here?’

Taking those warm hands in his own, his power of speech returned.

‘I might ask the same.’

Her laugh as she tilted her head back was so familiar – he had heard its echoes throughout his long-lost Orkney years.

She nodded towards the restaurant and took his arm. ‘Come and I’ll tell you about it.’

Shown to a table by the window overlooking George Square, sitting primly opposite one another, wasn’t enough for Faro. Still wondering if this was a dream that he might prolong before waking up to reality, he longed to be at
her side, touching her, holding her hand, breathing in the perfume she always wore.

Her eyes, blue as violets, smiled at him. ‘I expect you are here on police business.’

When he nodded and asked: ‘What about you?’ she sighed.

‘I have a job of work. A gentleman and his family were on holiday in Kirkwall. There was a sudden illness and they needed help bringing the family over to Glasgow,’ she said briefly.

‘How long are you to be here?’

She began a long explanation, enlarging on the circumstances of the family crisis of this gentleman who was very important, a member of parliament.

He was no longer listening, his mind racing ahead composing excuses to send Gosse to extend his stay in Glasgow for several days, longer – indefinitely. A week, perhaps. A week spent here with Inga. He closed his eyes briefly, the answer to a dream.

She was shaking her head. ‘I am not sure, it depends on Sir Hamish and how long his wife has to stay in Galloway.’

Her frown became a faraway sad smile. A sigh. ‘Then it’s back home again to Orkney.’ She shrugged and her face clouded as if the prospect did not appeal to her and he said sharply and rather accusingly:

‘You said once nothing would ever make you leave the island.’

She shrugged. ‘I know, Jeremy, but that was a long time ago.’ Was she reminding him of when he had asked her, begged her to be his wife, to return with him to Edinburgh, and her firm heartbreaking refusal?

Now she was saying: ‘Circumstances change, you know.’

‘You’ve obviously changed your mind,’ he said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Her eyebrows raised. ‘I had it changed for me. A person in need, who needed my help. And it isn’t for ever,’ she said softly, giving him a teasing glance. ‘Just a short while until proper arrangements for looking after the children can be arranged. Their nanny took ill, as I told you.’ Had she indeed said that? He felt irritated, betrayed, confused.

‘What with that, Jeremy, as if the poor souls hadn’t enough …’ She shook her head. ‘Troubles never come singly, always in three, as we say back home.’

He nodded, not having heard a word she had been saying about that sick nanny, presumably why she had been recruited at short notice. She didn’t like babies particularly, so how was she coping with this situation?

Silent now, she was staring out of the window, biting her lip, a habit he remembered she had when she was thoughtful. The sun had retreated leaving the tall buildings casting their long dark shadows across the square; the day would soon be drawing to its close, the romantic twilight hour.

The waitress came for the order. Inga shook her head. ‘I’ll be eating later, but tea and cake would be nice.’

‘Same for me,’ said Faro enthusiastically, although he would have preferred something much stronger than tea to steady his nerves. At that moment all appetite for food had been destroyed. It was something much more than food or drink for which his body hungered – to push aside the table and take her in his arms.

She had asked him how long he was staying and was waiting for an answer. ‘Till tomorrow – at least,’ he added hopefully. ‘Will you be free this evening?’

She frowned. ‘Maybe for a while. Are you staying here too?’

He smiled, said yes and at that moment he thanked destiny that he had to bring Gosse’s report to Glasgow. He even added a silent thanks for Inspector Wade with his broken leg, all the threads that had destined him to book a room in the same hotel where Inga was staying.

‘What would you like to do?’ he asked eagerly. ‘I don’t know Glasgow but it would be pleasant to explore with you.’

She shook her head. ‘I need to stay in the hotel – in case I’m needed by the children.’

He looked around the restaurant; people were arriving, looking for vacant tables. Soon it would be crowded. ‘Difficult to stay here talking.’

She looked at him, smiled and understood. ‘Agreed. We could go to my room and wait. They will know where to find me when they get back.’

Faro paid the bill and followed her upstairs, his heart racing. Not a single room in a corridor, however. She opened the door into a suite of rooms overlooking the square, the sky now wreathed in sunset. He followed her across a large handsome room, set with comfortable sofas and small tables.

Smiling, she opened the door into a smaller room, and Faro saw only a handsome bed, white pillows piled high – the perfect setting for love.

No sooner had she closed the door, than he took her in
his arms. She did not resist, but she did not melt into them either as he hoped. Returning that first tender kiss, a little restrained, she moved away from him and said: ‘So good to see you, Jeremy. Take a seat, will you.’

He saw the other contents of the room as she pointed to the window, with its two armchairs either side of a small table.

He remembered her well enough to recognise that this was all for the moment as she said: ‘How’s Lizzie?’

Lizzie was the last topic he wanted to discuss with Inga. He shrugged, and as she laughed lightly, his heart sank as miserably he realised there were to be no more passionate embraces. This romantic setting overlooking George Square was to be wasted for him, as sitting opposite him, Inga’s talk suddenly became general, about Kirkwall and South Ronaldsay and the weather and not a thing he wanted to know about – not even about his mother, who was back in her own home in Kirkwall after a summer as housekeeper at Scarthbreck.

Mary Faro didn’t like Inga and the feeling was mutual.

‘Next time I see her, I’ll tell her we met and that you were looking well,’ Inga said, reminding him guiltily that his mother was overdue an only son’s dutiful letter.

A halt in the conversation and she asked idly, ‘Not getting married yet, Jeremy?’

‘It’s not Lizzie I want to marry, as you well know, Inga St Ola,’ he said sharply. Suddenly her nearness was unbearable. He left his armchair and went over and kneeling put his arms around her.

‘No, Jeremy, no!’

‘Why not?’ he said.

Moving away from him she sighed. ‘You know why not. We’ve been through all this a thousand times. I can’t marry you.’

‘You mean you
won’t
marry me.’

She shrugged. ‘Put it that way, if you wish.’

Seeing his expression touched her heart; she stroked his cheek gently and whispered, ‘It was never meant to be, Jeremy.’

‘Why not?’

The same question but she shook her head, sighed. ‘I can’t explain, just that it isn’t written … it isn’t our destiny—’

‘What nonsense you talk, my dearest love.’

‘I’m not your “dearest love”, Jeremy,’ she replied indignantly. ‘I’m a free spirit – remember?’ She looked up at him and for a moment it was as if he saw clearly through her eyes and he knew again that among many other inexplicable things Inga St Ola, from his land of selkies and magic, had the ability to see into the future.

The sound of a man’s voice, a door opening, footsteps in the other room. A tap on the door. They both stood up as a man came in. A tall man, middle-aged but with good looks and presence outstanding.

And Faro, looking at Inga’s face, saw something else.

The look of love, of absolute adoration. And in that moment, he knew that free spirit or no, Inga St Ola who had never been his, was lost to him for ever.

He hardly waited to be introduced. He was consumed with misery by this revelation, the confirmation he had never been willing to accept, that Inga had tried to din into him over the years. He had ignored the warning signs at
his peril, that she would never marry him, that the wild attraction, the magnetism she had for him, was completely one-sided. She did not return it, had never done so and had never loved him in more than a friendly, companionable way, regarding him tenderly through the years as the boy she had initiated into manhood that long-lost night on a moonlit Orkney beach.

That and nothing more.

Now he had to face the truth, and that face of love he had glimpsed would remain indelible on his tortured mind. Clearer than any words, he had witnessed her adoration for another man and on both faces he had read all he needed to know: that they belonged to each other.

It was there for all the world to see. Marriage, a wife and children presented an ignored impediment to their relationship for they were consumed by an irresistible force, terrible in its intensity, the kind of love that could also destroy. The kind of love Jeremy Faro had never known and now would never know.

He thought he had bowed, shook hands, murmured goodbyes. He didn’t know if either of them even noticed his absence, or whether they saw him leave. Their love wrapped them up and transported them to another dimension of time, inaccessible to ordinary mortals, and Jeremy Faro was as unimportant as a piece of furniture in the hotel’s grand suite.

In George Square again he felt oddly naked and vulnerable, deprived of the dream of Inga St Ola which had been his for a decade, since he was seventeen years old. Tonight it felt like a death, but in spite of the terrible revelations of the last hour, his alter ego remained intact.
The detective constable had not died in the assault to his emotions, and walking towards Sauchiehall Street he found a smaller, more modest hotel where he booked a room for the night.

Ahead next morning lay the appointment at the City Chambers and the statement he was to read out on Gosse’s behalf, and then, with all desire for further exploration quelled in case he should meet Inga and her love again, he would return to Edinburgh by the first available train.

Meanwhile he discovered that he was hungry – it was some time since he had eaten – and he was given directions to a restaurant where, as some sort of consolation and healing to his bruised spirit, he ordered the most expensive course on the menu, helped down by a couple of large whiskies. Feeling better but realising he would sleep little in that tiny rather dark bedroom overlooking the hotel backyard, he decided to make notes regarding the success of his visit to Glasgow.

He had made one important discovery: he was almost certain that he knew the identity of the dead woman in Fleshers Close, an actress called Doris Page who had a wee girl and had not made the trip to Glasgow with Beau and Jane.

This was a triumph of sorts, being able to prove his theory was right, and he would enjoy proving Gosse was wrong. Having the name of the first murdered woman should put them a step further to finding the man who had killed them both.

He slept surprisingly well and, his appetite undeterred, he consumed a hearty breakfast and made his way to the
City Chambers where Gosse’s statement was first on the agenda and the hearing mercifully short. An hour later and he was seated in the Edinburgh train, the warm sun shining benignly through the carriage window, lighting up a landscape of undulating hills that would have inspired an artist had that been the role for which destiny had intended him.

As Edinburgh approached he thought fleetingly of the journey to Glasgow, how he had been unaware what lay in store. The final closure of a ten-year dream of a future, in which, despite all the odds, Inga St Ola would one day marry him.

He relived that moment before setting it aside for ever. The magic of seeing her walking towards him in the hotel, how his mind had raced ahead to conjure up the night before him in a wonder of fulfilment. That had passed away and he sighed, mentally saluting a youthful daydream, realising he did not even know the name of her lover, except that he was some sort of a politician.

But that no longer concerned him. He was unlikely to meet either of them ever again.