The Coffin Lane Murders (2 page)

Conan watched his anxious expression and smiled consolingly. 'It does happen,' he said softly. 'But thankfully, not to us.'

Above their heads, the sky darkened, shadowed by heavy clouds.

It was suddenly cold. Intensely cold as the first snow-flakes fell and their breath hung in icy globules upon the still air.

The storm, bringing events that were to change their lives for ever, was about to begin.

Chapter 2

To Faro, watching from the road, the scene was momentarily breathtaking. As the sky above the loch unloosed its burden, snowflakes floated down, thick and gentle as goosefeathers, on a scene from one of Jamie's favourite picture books. The skaters disappeared behind a translucent veil as the winter day died earlier than usual.

Vince's carriage was parked nearby in readiness to take them home. The coachman, Brent, sprang down and opened the door.

'I think I'll walk, thank you,' said Faro.

The man regarded him with astonishment. 'You'll get soaked, sir.'

But Faro pretended not to hear as he walked quickly back towards Newington. Above his head the massive expanse of Arthur's Seat, stretching high into the sky, resembled more than ever a lion couchant. Dwarfing humanity, it turned them into an army of tiny creatures minute as insects and of little consequence to an extinct volcano which had been comfortably ensconced millions of years before the dinosaurs walked the earth.

To his right lay Solomon's Tower. Sir Hedley Marsh, the eccentric aristocrat known as the 'Mad Bart', had occupied its crumbling walls for countless years, long before the handsome houses that crept out beyond the city walls to take root in the ancient monastic fields on Edinburgh's southern boundaries became the suburbs of Newington and Priestfield.

Some old folk still hidebound by superstitions believed that the Mad Bart had the secret of immortality, a warlock as old as the tower whose early history had vanished into the mists of time.

Indeed, at first glance the stones and mortar of its construction blended so skilfully with the rocky backdrop of Arthur's Seat as to suggest that Solomon's Tower might have evolved from the landscape, spewed up ready-made from one of the ancient eruptions that had shaped the city of Edinburgh.

It was remote from any other building by mortal hands, and many were the tales of saints and devils, blessings and a fair amount of curses associated with its mysterious presence.

Legend told of an ancient tunnel leading from the cellars into a stone-vaulted room inside the hill where King Arthur sat with his knights at a round table, at his hand a silver horn, awaiting the clarion call which one day would summon him from sleep to ride out and save Britain. Needless to say no such passage had ever been found. If such had existed outside man's colourful imagination, then it had collapsed long ago.

More matter-of-fact history hinted at the tower as a refuge for the Knights Templar befriended by King Robert the Bruce after their flight from Jerusalem.

Then there were darker, more sinister tales of the Tower being used as a meeting place for conspirators, Mary Queen of Scots in particular. She was a lady always good for romance, and rumour had it that she frequently halted en route from Edinburgh to Craigmillar Castle for clandestine meetings with the dangerously attractive Lord Bothwell. Encounters which were the prelude to Lord Darnley's murder and the Stuart tragedy that changed the course of Scotland's history.

Such were Faro's thoughts that day, for the Tower looked more forbidding than usual behind a curtain of drifting snowflakes.

It seemed deserted and, according to Kate, her uncle, growing steadily frailer and more withdrawn, had retreated to one room. His innumerable and disreputable cats had also gone into steady decline since she and Conan had taken up residence.

Some had turned feral, lured away to join forces with the few wild cats who, according to hunters, still roamed the secret caves and environs of Arthur's Seat. Kate had firmly reduced the remaining numbers by the practical method of drowning unwanted litters who could not be fielded to cat-loving acquaintances among her husband's and Vince's patients.

This wise move had been followed by the introduction of a dog into the household: a splendid, large, warlike creature of bewildering and suspiciously wolflike ancestry whose presence had doubtless speeded up the general exodus of the more timid members of the feline tribe.

Nero (such was his name) was of pony-like proportions so enormous that he could have swallowed two of the kittens in one gulp, a thought that Faro, although no cat lover except for his housekeeper's beloved Rusty, cared little to dwell upon.

There was no doubt about it, Nero had by fair means or foul succeeded in reducing the cat population to five females of antique years and loyally undaunted spirits, still recognised by Sir Hedley and called fondly by name.

'They look as old as himself,' Conan had muttered to Faro on a visit. 'Probably live for ever too.'

Kate was amused. 'My husband doesn't like cats. He suspects them of having extra-sensory powers, streets ahead of us poor humans.'

Faro approved of the Pursleys. They were a good influence on the Mad Bart and there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he was both saner and cleaner, despite his failing health, since their advent. Well acquainted with the Tower's ruinous condition within and without, Faro was astonished at its transformation into a comfortable elegant home with curtained windows, carpeted stone floors and stairs. Brass and tarnished silver gleamed under Kate's care, and unspeakably foul upholstery had been replaced by pristine covers.

Uncle Hedley willingly provided funds for such alterations but turned his face resolutely against servants or housekeeper. Frail pretty Kate got her way by being allowed a daily maid to help out in the kitchen. 'That is all I need. I can do the rest.'

The snow was heavier now and Faro decided on the short cut home along Coffin Lane. Once site of the town gibbet, in kindlier times and weather, it was a favourite haunt for lovers and a quick passage to the golf course.

Newington lay ahead with its prosperous newly built villas. Candles gleaming in the windows threw golden shadows on ghostly banks of hedges and garden walls. Trees glistened white and thrust out spectral arms, dripping diamonds of snow where the light touched them.

Uncurtained windows revealed shadowy glimpses of decorated trees while closer proximity brought sounds of children's laughter, indicative of parties afoot and still to come.

'Christmas is a-coming ...'

Here it was indeed, waiting just around the corner. All the excitement, and adding to the yearly magic, a visit from his beloved daughter Rose now teaching in Glasgow. Faro sighed happily, a contented man as he let himself into his front door.

Leaving his snow-covered greatcoat and hat in the vestibule, he climbed the stairs to his study. He loved the smooth touch of the banisters beneath his hand and as always he sniffed the air. Mrs Brook's beeswax polish mingled with roasting meat and bread from her kitchen.

These were the smells of homecoming through the years; at the end of many a long and trying day reaching this dear familiar place, his haven of rest.

But he could not deny to himself that there was a wind of change blowing through Sheridan Place, a shadow of the future. He recognised with a pang of almost over-whelming sadness that in the years since Vince's marriage his own world had moved on. Every day he expected news that there would be another brother or a sister for Jamie and that his rooms would be desperately needed for nannies and maids.

They would be tactful, on no account willing to distress him, of course, with a feeling of urgency. Nevertheless he secretly wondered how much longer he could remain in this house and if any of the family suspected the direction his own thoughts were taking.

Once before, guiltily aware that his occupation of much-needed accommodation had made it necessary for Vince to take surgery premises in Minto Place, he had suggested moving out.

Cries of indignation had met his proposal. Vince and Olivia had warned him never, never to mention such a thing again.

'This is your home, Stepfather. Always was.'

'No question about it,' Olivia put in. 'We are the intruders. We must take a larger house.'

And that was that. Now there was a third partner in the ever-expanding practice in this thriving suburb. A newly graduated doctor had been introduced.

Full of his own importance, Angus Spens seemed very young and know-it-all to the senior doctors. He also happened to be the only son of Superintendent Spens, head of the Central Office of the Edinburgh City Police and Detective Inspector Faro's superior.

Superintendent Spens had succeeded Mackintosh, Faro's old sparring partner, who had retired, alas, without the knighthood he had hoped for.

As the most senior detective Faro had been offered promotion. Much to everyone's surprise but his own, he had refused. The idea of sitting behind a desk watching other detectives solve his crimes appalled him. After thirty years, he decided that if he moved on, it would not be up into the superintendent's office but away from Edinburgh altogether, a clean break to indulge his dreams of travel. In a word, retire. And if boredom overtook him there was, he told himself, always the possibility of private investigations.

Yes, travel was the answer, with his own bachelor establishment of two rooms in the heart of the city. An admirable idea.

He had scarcely had time to remove his boots when he heard Vince's carriage arrive back from the loch and the swift patter of Jamie's footsteps on the stairs.

'G'npa help Jamie - make snowman-'

After Jamie, trooped the grown-ups followed by Mrs Brook, carrying into the dining room a late afternoon tea of gargantuan proportions. Smiling indulgently, the housekeeper was also Jamie's willing slave.

'We won't wait for Dr Pursley, Mrs Brook,' said Vince, and to Faro, 'He's gone to the surgery to see if there are any urgent calls.' He shook his head. 'We're afraid this bitter weather might carry off some of our influenza victims. It looks like being an epidemic, unless we're very fortunate.'

'I thought Dr Spens was on duty this evening,' Kate sighed, rather peevishly, taking Jamie onto her knee.

Vince laughed. 'He is indeed. But young Angus isn't quite conscientious enough to please Conan. Once or twice he's failed to make visits. And that's the unforgivable sin in a surgery like ours.'

'Conan considers him quite inadequate. Too young and frivolous by far,' said Kate.

Vince smiled. 'Time will change that.' He looked at her. 'Sometimes I think Conan cares more about the practice than I do.'

'Before Jamie came I couldn't keep you away,' said Olivia, with an adoring glance in his direction. 'A succession of sleepless nights cured all that, made you value your leisure.'

Kate, hugging Jamie close, kissing his soft curls, said wistfully: 'Children do change lives so much, don't they?'

Her sad voice struck a forlorn chord. In the silence that followed, Jamie swooping off her knee towards Faro with a jam-laden scone was a welcome diversion.

Holding the wee lad to his heart, Faro looked at the scene and wondered what had ever made him think of voluntarily leaving this beloved family.

He looked fondly at Vince, who had always been an integral part of his criminal investigations. His attitude to life was more conservative than his stepfather's, and he bitterly resented changes, a conservatism intensified by his newly acquired social status as a middle-class Edinburgh doctor with an ever-increasing circle of influential friends and golf acquaintances.

When Vince's previous partner in the practice had decided to go to Canada the search for a replacement had been less tedious than Vince had imagined. The 37-year-old doctor from Glasgow, Dr Conan Pursley, had applied for the vacancy as his wife wished to take care of an elderly relative in Edinburgh.

Vince had never liked Sir Hedley and was disgusted by the sordid conditions of his establishment, but took consolation from the fact that Conan at least regarded staying there as a temporary measure.

Weary of Vince's incessant grumbles, Faro advised him sternly that if the Pursleys chose to live at Solomon's Tower out of a sense of responsibility to Kate's uncle, then he must accept that their domestic arrangements were none of his business and learn to tolerate occasional meetings with the old man with good grace.

Faro observed these meetings with suppressed amusement, aware that Sir Hedley, who had always doted on Vince and never neglected any opportunity of enlarging their acquaintance, had transferred his frustrated overtures of friendship to Vince's wife and child.

Now each time Olivia walked towards the loch where ducks and geese were to be fed by Jamie, Sir Hedley would race out from the tower, waving some toy or object that he was sure 'your wee lad' would like. Vince might scowl as much as he liked, but Olivia had a soft spot for the old man. She felt sorry for him living alone all those years and was glad he was to be taken care of at last.

In truth, she found his old-world charm and courtesy quite captivating and was prepared to listen for hours to his stories about the bad old Regency days before that young upstart Victoria came to the throne and made everyone painfully aware that they must maintain their respectability, or be shunned for lack of it.