The Coffin Lane Murders (10 page)

He prepared to wait. It would obviously take her a little time to negotiate stairs unaided and by the time she appeared at the door in her wheelchair he was feeling cold and out of humour.

There was no maid in attendance and she greeted him with an impatience equal to his own.

'May I?' he asked and without awaiting her permission, he stepped boldly past her and into the hall.

Her lips tightened when he announced that there were a few questions covering one or two aspects of Molly's employment with her that he would like to clarify.

'If you would be so good-'

'Such as?' she interrupted. 'I have told you all I know about my companion.'

Companion now, was it? Again he was conscious of that lack of personal grief, the all-absorbing self-interest that made her regard Molly's horrific end as a personal inconvenience, a twist of fate sent personally to thwart her, to blight the smooth running of her everyday existence.

Or was indifference a screen for something more sinister?

'Would you be so good as to tell me exactly what happened as far as you can remember in those few minutes before Molly left the house to mail your letter?'

'I cannot recall anything unusual in her behaviour,' Miss Errington said stiffly.

Faro took out a notebook which she eyed with considerable disfavour. If he had made an improper gesture it could hardly have been less graciously received.

'I would like a list, as far as you are aware, of every tradesman with whom Molly would come into contact, or who calls at the house.'

The question raised an eyebrow. Pursing thin lips, she gestured with her hands. 'I have absolutely no idea about such matters, they are not of the slightest interest to me. Why on earth should you want such bizarre information?'

Faro suppressed a weary sigh. 'This is the usual procedure in murder investigations, madam. The information is circulated to our police constables who will pursue their inquiries most thoroughly by ascertaining if any of the tradesmen knew Molly or had friendly dealings with her.'

'Friendly, indeed!' was the shocked response. 'I cannot imagine Molly being acquainted with such - persons.'

Faro smiled wryly. 'Then I think you might be surprised to know how often servants confide in one another.'

'Confide,' she murmured as though the word conjured up more lurid visions than intimacy. 'And will such information help you track down whoever killed her?'

'That is the general assumption, madam. All such information gathered together can lead to evidence which will give us some indication of how our inquiries should proceed.'

She nodded assent, staring beyond him into the dark shadows beyond the stairs.

There was no more to be gained and Faro was relieved to shake off the aura of the house. Cold and gloomy in winter, he suspected it would not be greatly improved by summer, when sunlight became the aggressor, the enemy to be sternly held captive outside shuttered windows in case its invasion faded the worthless pictures, the tired fabrics of dreary furnishings.

'Inspector - here!'

A sibilant whisper came from beyond the railings. A face, Adie's face, looked up at him from the basement kitchen door.

'I've just got back. I was coming up to see if madam wanted tea 'cos she won't pay to have the bell fixed - and I heard what you were saying. So I stayed put.' She looked at him triumphantly. It was a look that he had recognised many times in the past. She had information.

'Well?'

'Just that she's an awful stickler for the truth, but she's no' telling it herself,' she added with a touch of malice. 'They had another awful row that day. Madam was always accusing her of thieving things and Molly was threatening to leave. She hinted that she had the offer of another job.'

Which accounted for the presence of that reference, thought Faro as Adie smiled delightedly at catching out her mistress in a lie.

Faro went away thoughtfully. A cripple defeated by disability and by life itself relying on a young active woman, living year after year in a cheerless atmosphere. A soul-destroying daily routine, the long hours of each day slowly ticking away on that asthmatic grandfather clock in the hall, with no other mortal save a kitchenmaid, set apart from them by her lower rung on the social scale.

He frowned, trying to remember. Was he missing some vital clue? Was it there in the house and he had overlooked it again? He considered Miss Errington, had noted that although her legs covered with a rug were undoubtedly fragile, her hands and arms were strong, as is often the case with invalids confined to wheelchairs.

Going down the path, he glanced at the upstairs window. Had it been Miss Errington in her white cap which concealed her hair? If so, if she was truly disabled, how had she negotiated that long flight of stairs unaided before getting into her wheelchair to greet him, if such a total lack of kindliness could be so called?

That bothered him. It might be significant, but not so significant, however, as the infernal red mailbox which loomed into view. Molly had walked straight past it with the letter in her hand, angry with Miss Errington after a blazing row. But why had she headed in the direction of Coffin Lane?

What on earth was she doing in that lonely spot on such a bitter evening? What had been her destination, or more likely, her assignation? He would have given much to know if her threat to find another situation was in earnest. Or was she secretly on the game too, he wondered, remembering Rita now recovering from shock.

True, in summer Coffin Lane took on the more benign aspect of a lovers' lane and the 'girls' were known to include it in their beat, wandering along in search of solitary clients from the golf course, with hopes of earning a quick shilling in the hedgerows at the base of Arthur's Seat. But clients would be unlikely to be tempted with four uncomfortable inches of hard-packed snow on the ground.

The mystery remained: what or who had enticed her to this deserted area?

There were two important questions still unanswered. If it wasn't Miss Errington he had glimpsed at the upstairs window, then who was she concealing? And more important, why?

That gave rise to a new possibility. Could Molly have been attacked before she left the house? Was that the reason for her disorientated flight? Was Adie's account just malice, or was there more to it? Now he imagined Molly running away terrified from someone in the house, someone angry, who had attacked her with the kitchen knife.

He shook his head, and pondering the imponderables, his footsteps led him back to the High Street, where he found to his annoyance that the antiquarian bookshop was closed.

There was no notice on the door but the thunder of the one o'clock gun from the castle ramparts reminded him that this was dinner time in Edinburgh. Rather than waste any more time, he decided to return to the hospital and see how Rita was progressing.

He was met by PC Dean, who had been on duty. His expression, grave and angry, told Faro more clearly than any words what to expect: 'Sorry, sir, she died an hour ago. Poor lass, poor lass.'

Chapter 11

Conan caught up with Faro as he was leaving the hospital.

'I'm on my way back to the surgery. Nothing I can do now.' He sighed. 'A sorry business.'

'Not what I expected to find,' said Faro.

Conan nodded. 'Nor I. The unknown factor - it appeared that she was an asthmatic. In the normal way she would have recovered, but the shock as well as the loss of blood sent her into a coma and killed her.' He paused. 'Your constable was quite shattered. It would seem he was on friendly terms with her. I didn't enquire whether that was in the line of business,' he added wryly. 'Seems that she lived by herself in one room in Fetters Close.'

'What about the child?'

Conan shook his head. 'Adopted a couple of years ago. Usual story, according to Dean. She felt it would be a better life for a wee girl never knowing the truth about her real mother.'

Outside, it was snowing again, the white purity of innocence spreading a blanket over the evils of the day.

'I'm going back to the institution, to see if they have any news of my missing patient,' said Conan grimly. 'What about you?'

Faro pointed towards the High Street. 'The antiquarian bookshop, I think.'

Once again he found the shop closed. He tried the door leading to the flat above which he presumed might be the old man's residence.

There was no reply. Directly across the road was a tobacconist and snuff-seller's shop. A man who had been watching his activities with some curiosity through the window now came to the door.

'Dr Benjamin, you mean,' was the cheery response to Faro's enquiry. 'Came in two or three days syne for his baccy.' The man looked thoughtful. 'Mind you, sir, he was awfa' sniffly, didna' look great at all. I says to him: "Reckon you're coming down with the influenza." "Aye, you're right there, Bob." "Take to your bed, sir, and keep warm. That's always the best treatment. With a dram or two, ye'll be grand the morrow." "Aye, Bob," says he, "that's what I'll do." '

As he paused for breath, Faro seized the opportunity to ask, 'And you haven't seen him since?'

Bob stared across the road. 'Not a sign of him. But that isn't unusual even when he's well. He keeps his own counsel.'

'What about the shop? Haven't there been customers enquiring?'

'He doesn't get many customers this time of year. Folk can do without books in this weather. Need to keep a good fire burning, keep cosy, like I told him. Well, well.

I'd leave it for a day or two, he'll have taken to his bed. He'll be all right, strong as a horse, he is.' Turning he said, 'It'll be a book you're after, I suppose. If you'd like to leave a message, sir, I'll put it through the back door for him; he usually leaves it open.'

'I won't trouble you with that,' Faro said vaguely. 'I'll look in again when I'm passing.'

When he returned to the Central Office, Conan was waiting for him.

'I just missed you, sir. I walked past the shop - no, no news of Celia. Not a word. The shop was locked,' he said.

When Faro recounted his interview with the snuff-seller, Conan looked grave. 'If the old man is lying ill, then I think we should make it our business, considering the circumstances to, well, what you would call, force an entry.'

Faro smiled. 'I don't think that'll be necessary. The snuff-seller says the back door is kept open.'

Conan seized his bag, looked in and snapped it shut. 'Let's go, shall we? I had better have you with me, just in case.' He sounded anxious.

As they walked swiftly down the High Street Conan seemed preoccupied. Faro had spoken to him twice before he turned and said, 'Sorry, sir. It's just that I don't like this business. If this is where Celia used to go - and now she's disappeared and the old man hasn't been seen-' He shook his head violently. 'I don't like it - I don't like the implications one bit.'

'Let's hope there is a perfectly innocent explanation.'

'You think so?' But Conan wasn't persuaded. 'Since Celia was last heard of visiting him a few days ago - and we know she has attacked three women, and been responsible for the death of all of them, don't you think it's rather sinister?'

'This man was her friend, Conan. Why should she kill him?'

Conan shook his head. 'Violence breeds violence. Something inside her head has gone out of control, snapped. I hope the one thought predominant in my mind is not the right one,' he murmured as they approached the shop.

Across the road the snuff-seller's back was turned, as he talked animatedly to a customer. Unseen, they slipped down the close, then tapped on the back door.

There was no reply.

Opening the door they walked through the dark passage that led to the shop. On their left was a narrow stair.

They exchanged glances. Both recognised that curious unpleasant odour emanating from its direction as the smell of death, even before they found Dr Benjamin lying stiff and cold on the landing above.

Conan bent over him. 'He's been dead for several days, I'm afraid.'

Faro nodded. So much was painfully obvious. 'How did he die? What I'm asking is - did he die from the effects of influenza?'

Conan shook his head. 'We won't know that until we have a post mortem, but it has the appearance at first glance of natural causes. Thank God for that. I'd speculate that he developed pneumonia, aggravated by the neglected influenza.'

For the moment the missing woman was forgotten, then Faro sighed, remembering the reason for their concern.

'Now we'll never know whether she visited him or not.'

Conan straightened up. 'And we are no nearer discovering where she is hiding.' That was his main concern. 'I wouldn't have the foggiest notion where to begin looking for her.'

'Does she know where you live?'

Conan frowned. 'I may have mentioned to her that we were living in the city, out at Solomon's Tower. Yes, I think I did. But it's very doubtful if she'd remember or indeed if she knew where that was.'

'It's less than a quarter mile from Coffin Lane, Conan,' was Faro's grim reminder. 'Dr Benjamin might have told her. He would surely have street directories.'