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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Rose McQuinn
- Sprache: Englisch
It's 1899 and strange things are happening in Edinburgh. The arrival of a circus seems to set in train a terrible series of events: the death of a clerk during a bank robbery and the suicides of two girls within mere hours of one another. Could the deaths be related? As Rose McQuinn investigates, evidence comes to light that makes Rose's new friend Elma Rice a suspect, but all it not what it seems. Rose must use all her cunning and skills of observation to uncover the truth and find out who the real killer is.
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Seitenzahl: 353
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013
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Quest for a Killer
ALANNA KNIGHT
In memory of Alistair, husband, best friend and enabler.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
Autumn 1899
That sunny morning, as I stood at my kitchen door in Solomon’s Tower, surveying the peaceful little garden, the swallows had left their ancient nesting places and another sound obliterated the raucous cries of corbies, eerie black shapes forever haunting the lofty crown of Arthur’s Seat.
The distant strains of a pipe band marching our gallant soldiers, the Black Watch, to Waverley Station on the first stage of that long sea journey to South Africa – ready to fight and die for queen and country.
Britain was at war. There was a lull in the resumption of hostilities while Boers waited for the spring grass to maintain the horses and oxen of their commandos; the British, meanwhile, awaited urgent reinforcements of imperial troops.
This state of affairs did not please everyone. In the initial stages of trouble brewing, William Buller, the brilliant outspoken commander-in-chief in Cape Colony, had declared British policies were foolish and did what he could to avert an Anglo-Boer war, which he believed would be a calamity. Damned as a pro-Boer and recalled for his efforts, he became in his own words ‘the best abused man in England’.
My arrival in Edinburgh four years ago saw constant unrest and bloodshed in the distant outposts of the British Empire, but on a more personal level, concerning the distress of an old school friend, I was plunged into investigating the behaviour of a husband with murderous tendencies. This was my first case; I solved it successfully. Not without considerable danger; it set the pattern for a career as a Lady Investigator, Discretion Guaranteed, my life’s secret ambition – to follow in the footsteps of my father, Chief Inspector Jeremy Faro.
The financial status of my career has improved considerably by taking on those anxious to keep their skeletons firmly locked in the family cupboards, afraid that their shameful secrets would be made public by laying them before the prying eyes of the police.
My clients are mostly the well-to-do: the labouring class could not afford the services of a private detective even if they knew such amiable creatures existed to sort out their troubles. Sadly, often in despair they resort to more violent and permanent solutions which result in prison, transportation and even death by hanging.
And thus I have had cause to learn much about the hierarchy of Edinburgh society and have gained a remarkable insight into the sanctity of middle-class life, where the qualities of respectability and law-abidingness are taken for granted. Frauds, thieving servants, sexual transgressions, husbands (particularly those addicted to the lure of comely housemaids), wives with blackmailing lovers and even, on several occasions, already recorded in my logbooks…
Murder!
Not that my investigations began that way. A distressed client entered with a list of suspicious facts to be investigated. Not until I was enmeshed in the web of intrigue did realisation dawn that this case was more suited to the police than a private detective, a fact which my client, for now obvious and frequently sinister reasons, had been most anxious to conceal, revelations that came too late to avert the looming catastrophe.
I owed my life on more than one occasion to the presence of Thane, the strange deerhound who originates from somewhere in the depths of Edinburgh’s extinct volcano, Arthur’s Seat (one baffling mystery I have failed to solve). It took the arrival of a very much flesh-and-blood creature, Sergeant Jack Macmerry of the Edinburgh City Police who also saw Thane, to convince me that my sanity was not in doubt.
Jack and I became lovers and would have married, indeed we were on the very threshold two years ago. There was only one impediment. Determined to become a detective inspector of the calibre of my father, a legend in his own lifetime, Jack realised that my chosen career might well inhibit all his chances of promotion.
And so we parted company; my permanent excuse that I was not officially a widow – my husband, Danny McQuinn, merely classed as missing in the state of Arizona – continued to aggravate Jack.
He guessed it was only an excuse and, to be honest, so did I. I did not want to remarry, but without this commitment, my ambitious lover (who longed to see me in the traditional role of a picture book housewife) finally accepted the truth.
He knew in his heart that I did not love him enough and so he went elsewhere for comfort, and the silence of almost two years suggests that he has found the love of his life and is doubtlessly happily married. Much as I still miss his companionship, his warmth and humour, the sacrifice he demanded was too great, one that could not have made either of us easy in a marital relationship.
A difficult choice but my father’s daughter indeed: the dream of a domestic life, of a home with a husband and children, was somehow lost on me. I had become addicted to puzzling evidence, and the search for clues; even personal danger did not deter me from solving a case. Among my clients an occasional attractive and eligible gentleman of means, but a few meetings, dinner and a concert were sufficient pointers to recognise that gleam in the masculine eye and the knowledge of what was on offer. Alas, a position in middle-class society held no temptations to abandon my chosen career.
As well as logbooks of every case, I now have five more extensive accounts of those apparently innocent investigations which had sinister hidden agendas and almost cost me my life. And along with the march of progress I now own a bicycle and, recently, a typewriting machine. A gift from my stepbrother Dr Vince Laurie, it sits in idle splendour in the great hall, one more challenge I have yet to tackle.
In one respect it seems that I have never learnt. Alongside those essential skills for a private detective, of observation and deduction, I was aware of one ingredient in short supply: I was not ruthless enough. Deep-rooted in my personality was a highly developed social sense, with an unfortunate tendency to seek out the goodness in humanity. And that included bloodthirsty renegade Indians in Arizona, and now in South Africa those Boer farmers who refused to give up fighting for suzerainty over the Transvaal while the British retaliated by burning their farms and herding them into concentration camps.
The sound of bagpipes faded to be replaced by the honking of wild geese in steady formation as they flew high over Arthur’s Seat to their feeding grounds on St Margaret’s Loch, and less distant, the faint babble of voices intermingled with fiddle music, hammering and high activity.
I sniffed the air. A faint jungle-like smell drifting on the breeze whispered ‘wild animals’.
The circus had come to town!
This event should have been full of joyous anticipation but its advent heralded a sorrowful anniversary, a reminder that the first time I had heard these sounds coincided with my arrival from Arizona, certain then that I would not be alone for long, confident that Danny McQuinn would come home again.
Alas, gone are the days when I lived in hourly expectation of a door opening and my missing husband standing on the threshold, smiling, with arms outstretched, ready to clasp me to his heart. I have now accepted that Danny is dead, lost to me for ever, lying in some unmarked grave among the red rocks of the Arizona desert, where he disappeared during his detective activities five long years ago.
Far below in Queen’s Park, the sounds of activity gained momentum. At my side the deerhound froze. Thane had sensed something else, well out of my range.
I put my hand on his head. ‘What is it?’
I knew he didn’t like the circus or the animals and was frowning in that almost human way.
The circus was an annual springtime event. This was an additional visit. Posters advertised it everywhere. Hengels Circus was paying Edinburgh a visit ‘for a short season’ after a well-publicised command performance for Her Majesty Queen Victoria at Balmoral Castle and before returning to their winter quarters on the outskirts of Glasgow. This extra appearance, with the additional thrills of merry-go-rounds and swingboats, was pleasantly anticipated by the children. And for the more mature in age, in addition to a fortune-teller and a shooting range, there would be daring sideshows, featuring seriously underclad ladies who, according to lurid posters, rashly promised to make ‘old men young and young men ambitious’.
The greatest delight, however, for children of all ages, was the clowns. In particular their leader Joey – an unending source of wonder, with his tricks and nonsense guaranteed to raise a smile on even the sober countenances of the more aged and respectable citizens of Edinburgh. Although I did not class myself among the latter, I must confess to a weakness for the circus. The smoking fires, roast potatoes, the smell of horses and crushed grass all added to a way of life that harked back to pioneering days in Arizona – exhilarating and dangerous in a quite different way to my present existence.
This time the circus was destined to be less innocent, more fraught with sinister happenings. Its arrival coincided with a local bank robbery a mile away, where one of the clerks had been killed and, nearby, two girls had committed suicide within hours of each other.
Were the three deaths linked? Were the suicides also to be classed as murder?
CHAPTER TWO
The facts under investigation by the police were that the girls, unmarried and at present unemployed, had met death by hanging themselves from ropes attached to the drying racks on their kitchen ceilings. This had happened within hours of each other in the same tenement in St Leonard’s, just a short distance from the scene of the bank robbery in Newington Road.
These tragic events raised many intriguing questions, sadly far outside my field as a private detective, especially as sensational newspaper reports hinted at foul play, a killer at large, firmly dismissed by more sober editorials as ‘base rumours set about to terrorise the good citizens of Edinburgh’.
Nevertheless, my interest deepened. In my experience there was, to quote a well-worn cliché, ‘no smoke without fire’. According to the terrified surviving bank clerk interviewed by the police, the man seen running from the tenement in the direction of Queen’s Park at the time of the suicides bore a remarkable resemblance to the robber who had brutally killed his senior colleague, leaving a widow and four young bairns fatherless.
There had also been a series of local burglaries. One at Newington House close by Sheridan Place, my childhood home, long since vacated by my father, who now in his retirement travelled the world with his companion, the Irish writer, Imogen Crowe.
Coincidences maybe, but the possibility of a connection could not be dismissed. Perhaps it was even encouraged as there was little crime in Edinburgh, with headlines devoted to the Boer War, although it seemed too remote except for those with sons, fathers or sweethearts in the Black Watch regiment. Names listed as ‘missing’ or ‘killed in action’ made melancholy reading.
I knew all about danger and violent death, having had first-hand experience sharing the hazards of Danny McQuinn’s daily life with Pinkerton’s and the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Ten years of encounters with Apache raiders, Mexican bandits, and lawless white men, witnessing sudden death at close quarters, and though it grieves me to say, often enough with my own hand on the rifle. I was in a better position to understand the dreadful reality of Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s war against the Boers, to be followed at a safe distance by eager readers, where murder at home seemed almost a novelty.
According to newspaper reports, based on somewhat reluctant interviews with neighbours, the girls’ last brief employment was at a laundry, locally known as ‘the steamie’ in Newington. They appeared to be happy, cheerful lasses; indeed, Amy was courting and expecting to be married as soon as her fiancé’s ship returned to Britain.
As for the other suicide, Belle was devoted to a disabled grandfather, a veteran of the Crimean wars. She would never have abandoned him. This was duly confirmed in yet another painful newspaper interview, which at least aroused the public concern and beseeched a subscription to ensure the bereaved grandfather’s future care.
Studying these reports, the closest I could hope to get in such matters, one fact emerged strongly. There had been no reason for suicide in either case apart from the identical manner the two friends had chosen within hours of each other.
A sinister alternative to a strange suicide pact was the man seen rushing from the scene, which suggested that the Newington bank robber had claimed two other victims.
The search for a killer had no immediate result which was hardly surprising in such baffling circumstances. A scapegoat was urgently needed while the police made their initial investigations and rumour was swift to point to the newly arrived circus with its motley crew of humanity. And this included the inevitable gravitation of the tinker clans to the site, as they moved nearer towns to set up their settlements away from the harsh snows of the Highland winters.
And so the evening performances at the circus were destined to be overshadowed by fear. One of Joey the Clown’s comic antics which always raised howls of laughter was a pursuing clown in the guise of a policeman, at whom Joey points a gun, yelling: ‘Bang, bang!’ The policeman obligingly falls down dead but the gun, instead of emitting a shot, throws out a string of sausages. The scene continues with more police clowns milling round, then a weeping Joey takes out an enormous loop of rope and pretends to hang himself.
This did not raise quite as many laughs as usual; the applause was thinner for Joey’s antics, tainted with the whisper of true events, of real life beyond the canvas walls of the tent, where the safety of lights ceased to penetrate. Above the circus loomed the heavy mass of Arthur’s Seat with its hidden caves and lost hiding places, and uneasy thoughts drifted inevitably to what lurked beyond the darkness, a killer with a lust for blood waiting, perhaps already stalking his next victim.
The night held unseen dangers to be faced and young females unaccompanied would cling together, giggling nervously as they left the safety of the crowds behind them and hurried through the night to their destinations. The servant girls took extra care to make sure that they locked and bolted the master’s kitchen door securely, the flame of their flickering candles casting scary shadows as they crept up to their attic rooms.
As for the killer, he could have come from any stratum of society. From the fetid ill-smelling closes, the ghettos of the High Street with their poverty, their often criminal humanity, or – dare one whisper such sacrilege – from the upper classes. Some monstrous creature hiding terrible evil behind a mask of respectability and affluence, of the kind Mr RL Stevenson had brought to life in Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, a story, with sensational success, of a killer not for gain but to satisfy some hideous impulse to destroy.
Such was the reasoned apprehension, and rumour persisted that all three deaths – the bank robbery and suicides – had coincided with the arrival of the circus. The work of setting up the arena had begun two days before the show opened. The canvas structure of the tent had been erected, and within it, the trapezes and high wires were hoisted into position. And the most hazardous of all preparations for the townsfolk; the cages of the wild animals – including the lions and leopards – were moved into place.
Thoughtful minds now leant heavily towards another link and the finger of suspicion pointed in the direction of the tinkers, always a likely target for any misdeeds. They swarmed like flies upon fairs and circuses. As well as women telling fortunes, selling clothes pegs and occasionally lifting washing from the drying greens (for their more unscrupulous menfolk), there was opportunity for clever tricksters adept at extracting money from the unwary, as well as wallets and pocket watches. Until the tinkers and circus left, it followed that any burglary in the south side of Edinburgh, Newington, the Grange and Morningside would be laid at their caravan doors.
This supposition provided unexpected benefits for the killer. It gave him the advantage of gaining time, covering his tracks, and irritated the police by diverting their attention to lesser evils, petty crimes at the Queen’s Park encampment.
Murder investigations involving the police were not for me. As an outsider I must remain content to watch events regardless of my own suspicions and conclusions.
Such was the situation shortly after my new friend, Elma Miles Rice, and I had become acquainted.
CHAPTER THREE
Thane and I were out walking on the hill; it was a fine, sunny, brisk morning. Once the church bells had finished pealing, an air of tranquillity filled the air. There were no sounds from the circus, who respected the traditions of an Edinburgh Sabbath day.
Suddenly Thane stopped in his tracks. Listening, I heard far off the faint sound of a dog barking.
Normally that would not have been a cause for Thane’s behaviour: dogs frequently barked when out with their owners on Arthur’s Seat – there were rabbits in plenty, and exciting canine chases – but this was different. Thane’s imploring look in my direction was one I had learnt to recognise and respect: danger ahead. His instinct, as always, was well ahead of humans.
The barking he drew attention to was an animal in distress.
He led the way and I followed. The sound grew nearer, more urgent, and materialised as a fierce, small, white, Highland terrier that did not seem pleased in the least to see Thane. He was being held on a lead by someone invisible behind a boulder.
We went closer; the dog now bared his teeth, and growled ferociously. Thane ignored him completely and gave him the equivalent of a contemptuous human shrug, much to the dog’s anger; the barking got fiercer until it was quelled by a woman’s voice calling faintly, ‘Oh, do desist, for heaven’s sake, Rufus. If you can’t do something useful, do stop barking. That is no help at all.’
The voice sounded querulous, pained. I shouted, ‘Hello there,’ and, walking carefully around the other side of the boulder to avoid the dog, discovered a lady sitting on the ground, nursing her ankle.
I did not ask, ‘Are you hurt?’ So much was evident.
She looked up at me and smiled wanly. ‘I think it is broken. I don’t know how I’m to get down the hill again. I can’t walk.’
All this was obvious too.
‘Perhaps I can help you. Do you think you could stand up?’
She sighed deeply. ‘With your assistance, miss, I will do my best.’ As she held out her hands, I grasped them and set her upright, not without considerable effort as I am under five feet tall and, although slender, she topped my small frame by some four inches and several pounds in weight.
Leaning against the boulder, she gave a whimper as her injured foot touched the ground.
Handing over the dog’s lead she said, ‘Hang on to him, miss, if you please, or he’ll be off like a shot.’
Rufus did not care for this changeover; he stared at me suspiciously when I said, ‘Good dog,’ to which the lady added sternly, ‘Behave, Rufus!’ At this he devoted himself to darting Thane angry looks and menacing growls, to which Thane remained blissfully oblivious.
Still holding on to me, the lady looked around despairingly; the terrain was empty of all but heath and boulder with its distant view of Edinburgh’s spires.
She groaned. ‘Oh dear, I suppose we’re absolutely miles from anywhere.’
‘Not quite miles. I live over there,’ I said whilst pointing. ‘My house is just out of sight down the hill.’
‘Down the hill,’ she repeated tearfully. ‘How on earth am I going to get down there?’ she added with another groan.
‘I’m sure Thane and I will manage that.’
She gave an apprehensive glance at Thane. ‘He’s very big but I hardly think—’
Anticipating that comment, I said reassuringly, ‘He is also very strong.’ And as the lady looked alarmed, I added hastily, ‘I don’t expect you to ride on his back, but if you put one hand on his shoulder and the other around my waist…’ I demonstrated, ‘like so – then I think we shall make a decent job of getting you to the Tower.’
‘The Tower?’ was the faint echo. She sounded alarmed.
‘Yes, Solomon’s Tower. That’s where I live…’
She stared at me wide-eyed. ‘How extraordinary,’ she whispered.
What on earth did she expect? But this was no time for explanations. ‘And while you are having a reviving cup of tea, I’ll go along the road towards St Leonard’s and see if I can find a hiring cab to take you home.’
‘You’re very kind,’ she murmured. ‘I live in the Grange.’
I had already guessed by her clothes, her accent and demeanour that the Grange or Morningside might be her home.
As we made our unsteady, painful, hopping progress, I observed her more closely. Even twisted in pain, a well-shaped mouth turned down at the corners could not mask outstanding looks. The eyes anxiously regarding the terrain were deep blue, large, long-lashed. She had a porcelain complexion with honey-coloured curls escaping from under her bonnet. Here was a classical beauty indeed, the kind artists dream of painting.
‘I am so grateful to you, miss,’ she said. ‘I might have lain there until darkness, probably all night and frozen to death, if you had not come along. It doesn’t bear thinking about,’ she added with a shudder. ‘I can’t ever express my gratitude.’
I smiled and didn’t tell her that Thane had been her saviour. I doubted from that distance if a dog barking would have raised feelings of alarm or indicated that its owner was lying injured. It would have suggested nothing worthier of investigation than someone having a Sunday morning walk on Arthur’s Seat with his dog who had spotted a rabbit.
Certainly Rufus did not share his owner’s feelings on her survival. He continued to growl menacingly at Thane and did not approve of his beloved mistress’s hand on the deerhound’s shoulder. No sense of gratitude whatsoever. Thane continued to ignore him completely as if the little white dog did not exist.
Elma – I later learnt that was her name – needed all her breath for the last part of the steep descent and she was almost sobbing with exhaustion by the time we reached the garden gate of the Tower.
The sight of a kettle on the hob was a blessed relief to her and she brightened visibly. My kitchen was a large and hospitable place and I kept a fire going as soon as the weather turned chilly: the Tower could be cold in winter and was not helped by fierce winds finding their way through every crack in its three-hundred-year-old stone walls.
Taking a seat she continued to nurse her ankle; stretching it out gently, we both knew it was not broken. As she sipped her tea I wrung out a towel in cold water, a commodity always easily accessible.
Handing it to her, I said, ‘You were very fortunate. Twisted as you fell, a bad wrench, but this will help the swelling and ease the pain meanwhile. Do this at home and get your doctor to have a look at it tomorrow.’
Removing her boot she applied the cold compress gratefully.
‘That’s better already!’ she sighed. ‘So painful, though, and such an idiotic thing to happen.’
She had my sympathy. It had often happened to me and I saw that her delicate and doubtlessly very expensive boots were totally inadequate for one who walked on the hill every day.
‘Regardless of the weather, daily exercise is so important,’ she said sternly.
Rufus had lapsed into sullen silence and flopped down by her feet with a groan. She touched him tenderly. ‘Poor wee soul, he is such a good dog, so loyal and protective. His bark really is worse than his bite.’
‘Of that I am heartily glad. He sounded very fierce indeed.’
‘At least in these difficult times I do feel quite safe with him.’
I had already noticed the wedding ring and her elegant attire which fairly shouted Jenners Mantle Department; her conversation and the Grange suggested where she fitted into Edinburgh society. The only odd thing was, that unless a widow like myself, why walk alone? Did she not have a personal maid? And surely an affluent anxious husband would have insisted that she be accompanied on a long, lonely stretch of Arthur’s Seat each day.
I considered her jewellery: even for a morning stroll there were earrings and diamond rings, which I guessed were worth a fortune. This suggested a foolish notion when walking on a lonely hill – especially with tinkers and a circus in the vicinity.
Insisting that she was feeling much better after the cup of tea and was ready to go in search of a hiring cab, she stood up gallantly, wobbling a bit, but said firmly, ‘If you will lend me your arm once more, perhaps you have a walking stick somewhere, rather than your dog.’ She added, ‘Since Rufus will persist in being so disagreeable.’
I didn’t have a stick. The best I could provide was a gentleman’s large umbrella, left and never reclaimed by some male client.
She tested it against the floor. ‘This will do admirably. I am sure we will manage splendidly.’
And so we set off down the road together. She was oddly silent during that short walk and I concluded that her strained expression indicated that her ankle pained her more than she pretended.
As we reached St Leonard’s Station luck was on our side as a cab was just depositing a passenger.
Turning, she held out her hand. ‘I can never thank you enough for all you have done. I do hope we will meet again, miss. What is your name, by the way?’ she added.
I answered and watched as the cab departed, carrying her and her bad-tempered little dog to the Grange.
Walking back to Solomon’s Tower the rain that had been threatening for the past half hour began in earnest and I wondered if I would ever see Mrs Elma Rice again, or my umbrella which she had used to assist her into the cab.
Too bad. A sturdy umbrella in Edinburgh’s uncertain weather is an absolute necessity, particularly on the days, when not riding my bicycle, there is a dismal prospect of a drenching.
However, I need not have been concerned. At midday the next morning a smart carriage stopped outside my garden gate.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mrs Rice emerged from the carriage and, seeing me at the door, she held out the umbrella apologetically.
‘Sorry about that. I was so agitated at getting Rufus settled I didn’t realise. I trust you did not get too wet.’
It was a grey dreary morning and I was glad of a visitor. Inviting her in, she said, ‘That is kind of you.’ And looking over her shoulder she called to the coachman to wait. ‘I shall not be long.’
She was limping only slightly, but gladly accepted the offer of my arm. ‘Our doctor had a look at it, assured me that you were right, just a bad sprain. It is all bandaged up now so I am quite comfortable as long as I don’t put too much weight on it.’
I thought that unlikely as I gently led the way to the kitchen via what had once been the great hall, now sadly neglected from lack of use and lack of purpose since I preferred the warmth of the kitchen.
In truth, I felt lonely and rather foolish sitting at one end of the seventeenth-century dining table, surrounded by previous owners’ deep and rather uncomfortable Jacobean chairs which had passed their days of grandeur, velvet and brocade worn and shabby, overshadowed by ancient tapestries on the stone walls depicting biblical scenes and battles long ago, with once vivid colours long since faded.
Elma halted, looked around and sighed deeply. ‘What a marvellous room. You are fortunate to live in such a place. So impressive!’
I smiled. ‘I’m afraid that is rather lost on me. This room is distinctly chilly even on a summer’s day and winter is quite intolerable. I scarcely ever use it, I long ago decided to retreat to the kitchen with its warm stove and sunny aspect.’
‘But surely it could be kept comfortably warm too – such a vast fireplace?’
‘Indeed; it is large enough to roast an ox, which it very probably did in days gone by. Alas, it is now quite inadequate for modern-day coal supplies. Or to keep at bay the draughts seeping in through every crack in those stone walls. And as Arthur’s Seat is devoid of trees, not much hope of cheery log fires.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘But I can just imagine those tapestries coming to life on windy evenings.’ Laughing, she clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, wouldn’t I just brave anything, even the cold, to live in the lap of such history?’ Then, shaking her head sadly, ‘My home is quite modern, not yet thirty years old. A kind of monstrous mini-Balmoral Castle, complete with turrets and so forth. Everyone, it seems, wants to follow the fashion set by our dear Queen. So ostentatious and quite ridiculous, don’t you think, for a suburb in Edinburgh?’
I had to agree, but before I could say so, she continued: ‘If I lived in such a place as your Tower, I would do so much to preserve its history.’
I smiled tolerantly. A worthwhile ambition but I had neither time nor money nor, I might add, inclination to resurrect the splendid home she envisaged. On my return to Edinburgh to find that my family home had been sold, I was glad to accept this ruinous tower which my stepbrother Vince had inherited from its eccentric previous owner.
I thought, with silent amusement, how shocked this genteel lady would be if she knew the truth of the ten years I had spent in the pioneering towns of Arizona: living rough with Danny McQuinn, often sleeping under the stars when we had no home and frequently at the mercy of Indian uprisings, bandits and cattle thieves when we had one.
In the shack towns of the Wild West, guns were more readily on display than fancy ornaments, and the feathers of scantily clad saloon girls smoking their cheroots as they displayed their wares for clients would have shocked middle-class Edinburgh matrons into the vapours.
I led the way into the kitchen and the warmth of a steadily burning fire. The tea I offered was readily accepted. The talk today was of trivialities and I realised that perhaps she was too polite – too well brought up to enquire about my background, or how I had acquired such a prize as Solomon’s Tower. Such curiosity would no doubt have been dismissed as inappropriate and quite vulgar in her stratum of society so I decided to put her mind at rest.
‘I was brought up in Sheridan Place in Newington. The Tower belongs to my stepbrother who now lives in London.’
She nodded eagerly. ‘What a piece of good fortune to have such a piece of ancient architecture in one’s family.’
She held out her hand to Thane who, always polite, came forward. She patted his head. ‘I love all dogs, but he is the first of his breed I have seen in Edinburgh. Tell me, how did you come by such a splendid creature?’
I smiled. ‘It was rather the other way round. He adopted me when I arrived here.’
‘You mean he was a stray? How extraordinary.’
‘I thought so in the beginning. I tried to find his owner but without success, especially as I was never sure whether he was real or a figment of my imagination. He remained so elusive to everyone I had a difficult task convincing anyone of his existence.’
‘He is certainly real enough, but somehow…’ she paused and shrugged. ‘I know it sounds silly, but he doesn’t look like a pet one would have these days. A pet such as Rufus. He looks quite old-fashioned, not of this time at all.’
She smiled. ‘As if he’d stepped out of one of those ancient old hunting tapestries hanging in the other room. As if he, too, belongs, well, to times past. It must have been quite a shock when you encountered him.’
‘It was indeed, especially as one of the legends of Arthur’s Seat here is that King Arthur and his knights are asleep deep in a hidden cave with their deerhounds at their side ready to ride out when Britain calls for their help.’
Elma liked that but as we talked I could sense there were some curious omissions. She had been intrigued by Thane, but apart from being a dog lover, she was not the most observant of women. My bicycle lying against the kitchen wall had not raised an eyebrow, much less a question, yesterday afternoon. Forgivable, perhaps, as she was in some pain. Furthermore, she had addressed me as ‘miss’ regardless of the wedding ring and although I knew her name she had never asked mine until the cab carrying her and my umbrella departed.
Contemplating these odd facts, as if interpreting my thoughts she glanced at my hands and said, ‘Your husband is absent?’
A polite way of putting the question indeed. ‘I am a widow.’
Commiserations and condolences followed this remark. I filled in the background as briefly as I could, omitting the details of how Pappa’s sergeant Danny McQuinn had rescued my sister Emily and I as children in a kidnapping attempt by one of Pappa’s villains. Twelve years old I had fallen in love then and there with Danny, swore to marry him, and even against his will, his better judgement and his protests that he was ten years my senior, I had followed him to America where he was working for Pinkerton’s Detective Agency and the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
We married, I had ten years of all the love I could wish for, then one day he walked out never to return, never to know that I was at last carrying a live child after several miscarriages. Our baby son died of a fever in an Indian reservation and I kept my promise to Danny that, if he disappeared and failed to return after six months, I was to relinquish the pioneering life of Arizona in the 1880s as it was too dangerous for a woman on her own, with Indian raids and lawless white men, and I was to return to the safety of my home in Edinburgh.
‘Your late husband was a policeman, Mrs McQuinn,’ she interrupted, using my name for the first time. ‘How interesting.’
‘Interesting’ wasn’t quite how I would have described his dangerous life, but I could not refrain from a burst of pride: ‘My father is also a retired policeman – Chief Inspector Faro of the Edinburgh City Police, perhaps you have heard of him.’
She looked at me blankly and shook her head. So much for my legendary parent, I thought, as she added, ‘We came here – from London, quite recently. My husband is Felix Miles Rice – perhaps you have heard of him.’
I had indeed. And so had most of everyone else in Edinburgh. If Pappa was a legend in crime, her husband was a legend in philanthropy. A philanthropist with a finger in every pie of good works, no cause was too small or too large for Miles Rice to reach out and flourish his support and bank account. In addition to such admirable qualities he had also won the nation’s respect by remaining a plain mister, one of the people who took pride in obstinately refusing the knighthood Her Majesty considered so richly deserved for his services to humanity.
Refreshing the teacups I said, ‘Have you family in Scotland, then?’
She nodded. ‘I am exceedingly fortunate in having a brother who has been working in a front-line hospital in the Transvaal. Alas, I would be quite alone in the world without him. We are twins and he is a trainee doctor.’
Then with a sudden change of subject she said, ‘Have you children, Mrs McQuinn?’
That was a sore point; although it was possible, considering that I was in my mid thirties, that any children might be gone from home, living their own lives.
I shook my head. ‘Alas, I had a child in Arizona, a baby son called Daniel…’ I could still feel the tears rising; would this wound ever heal? ‘But he took a fever and died there.’
She clasped her hands together, genuinely upset. ‘How dreadful, how truly dreadful.’ And no doubt aware of my distress, she touched my hand briefly. ‘So sad to have had a child and to have lost it.’
Looking towards the window, she shook her head and said in almost a whisper, ‘I have not even had the joy of those brief months. Not even days – or hours – of motherhood. Our marriage after four years is still childless. We have yearned and hoped, but no blessing of a son has come our way.’
She paused, biting her lip, and put down the cup. ‘So sad. This was my husband’s second marriage. His first wife died of scarlet fever. There were no children there either.’ She looked up at me. ‘You might imagine how he had hoped that he would be more fortunate – second time lucky.’
My imagination was up to her expectations although I said not one word, knowing all too well the disastrous influence of a childless union – even in the happiest of marriages – on the man who possessed everything and had almost the whole world at his fingertips but could not beget a living child. Kings had suffered this affliction; queens had lost their heads for their inability to provide an heir.
‘A son, a son!’ That was the cry as the whole world moved to the tune of a dynasty that must survive, could only survive with a male heir, and wars, the need for soldiers to fight for their country, increased this frantic yearning, although Scotland had solved this particular problem by a law which allowed a daughter to inherit.
As I was wondering what to say to break the silence that this somewhat intimate confession had imposed upon us, she smiled, and it was like clouds clearing from the sun.
‘I had another purpose for my visit. I observed posters advertising a visit from the circus. I wonder if you would care to accompany me?’
I was delighted to accept and on her walk with Rufus later that week she called in to tell me that she had obtained tickets for the following day.
‘If that is convenient,’ she said anxiously. Assuring her that it was so, she smiled. ‘Excellent. They are agreeable seats and under cover too, should the weather be inclement.’
And, although I was within walking distance of the arena, she insisted that the carriage would come for me at six o’clock.
She departed soon afterwards leaving me wondering about this invitation. From Elma’s class in Edinburgh society two ladies unescorted was unusual for an evening entertainment. Why? A ‘thank you’ for Thane’s rescue and the use of the umbrella or – uncharitable thought – perhaps her husband had another engagement, and she did not wish to go alone or accompanied by a personal maid or a male relative.
I shook my head, mine not to reason why but to accept gratefully; a second visit to the circus in one year was an opportunity not to be missed.
Walking with Thane later I considered her two visits and my own omissions at those meetings. Why had I not told her that I was a lady investigator? And why, in our tour of the house, when she was obviously so enthralled by the Tower’s past, had I hesitated about showing her the secret room?
I expect all ancient towers built in times of religious and political persecutions had them as places of refuge. Jack and I came upon it by accident, carrying a piece of furniture upstairs, when he stumbled against the panelling which suddenly swung open.
We stared into a dark room and Jack whispered in awed tones, ‘What have we here? I must have pressed a hidden spring.’
The room was illuminated by a narrow slit of a window which gave enough light to reveal an ancient padded chair, its tapestry lost under generations of cobwebs, a small table and a palliasse on the floor, its bedding having provided nests for generations of mice. A uniform cape of the fashion worn in Jacobite times hung on a nail.
I pointed to it. ‘Doesn’t look as if it has been worn recently.’
‘Aye, and the last owner must have left in a hurry,’ said Jack sweeping aside the cobwebs on the table. A map yellowed with age emerged. Holding the candle aloft we peered at it.
Blowing away the dust, Jack said, ‘Looks like the drawing of a battle line-up. In fact, this is almost certainly the Battle of Prestonpans, where you will remember there was a battle in 1745. Prince Charlie and his troops were camped outside here on Arthur’s Seat and in Duddingston.’
‘Of course. There’s still a house where he stayed.’
‘And presumably a soldier, either one of his men or one of the Hanoverians, we’ll never know which, took shelter in this room.’
He thought for a moment. ‘A slice of the past indeed. What shall we do – open it to the public?’
