The Coffin Lane Murders (5 page)

He was almost certain that knowing the victim's identity, it would not take long for evidence to mount up that would point clearly in the murderer's direction.

But events were already taking shape which were to change his mind and make nonsense of his careful theories.

Chapter 5

Faro had just set foot in the Central Office when Superintendent Spens appeared at his door.

'Another murder, have you, Faro?' he asked. His somewhat weary tone indicated that such events happened every day and that his chief inspector attracted them as other men attracted the present influenza epidemic.

Superintendent Spens ('No relative to Sir Patrick of that ilk' he insisted) had replaced Superintendent Mackintosh, recently retired, his decent pension failing to compensate for the list of woes with which he regaled listeners on the subject of 'How I failed to qualify for my knighthood'.

Despite the abrasive quality of their relationship over the years, Faro missed him. His successor was of a different breed from Mackintosh, who had worked his way up from the ranks, a fact that he had been proud to remember and keen not to let anyone else ever forget. It was perhaps the only ground for agreement between Faro and himself.

Percival Spens was college-educated, he had left the University of St Andrews with first class honours in history. Many of the rank and file in the Central Office suspected that his appointment came by virtue of influence rather than a lifetime's devotion to crime, if such an unhappy and grisly occupation could qualify for the description 'devotion'.

Superintendent Spens was as keen as his predecessor had been that no one should forget his impressive background. Addicted to Latin tags, which mostly fell on deaf ears and produced dazed expressions among his subordinates, he resorted to quoting Shakespeare and was somewhat dismayed that Chief Inspector Faro, who had scant education, was an authority on the Bard. Faro even had the temerity to correct his superior officer ever so politely: 'That was from
Othello
not
Hamlet
, sir;' and 'May I point out, sir, that is from
Henry IV Part 2
, not
Henry V
?

His ego thus dashed, the superintendent took refuge in the more obscure works, hoping to catch Faro at a disadvantage.

He was unsuccessful. Those who knew the inspector hid their smiles, aware that his retentive memory was remarkable; he was able to remember not only the words but the page they appeared on. And Shakespeare, Sir Walter Scott and Charles Dickens were foremost in Faro's leisure reading.

'Who ever heard of a policeman spouting Shakespeare?' asked Mrs Spens, who was born of the same mould as her husband and had been carefully chosen for her breeding. 'Sounds to me as if he hasn't half enough to keep him occupied, Percival,' she added severely, sharing with her husband the opinion that education should be restricted to the upper classes. 'It is my belief that no servant should be allowed anything stronger than the Bible and that only in an expurgated form. In the wrong hands the teachings of Christ might well be subject to misinterpretation,' she whispered with a shudder. 'You know the sort of sentiment, Percival, about the meek inheriting the earth.'

Spens patted her hand sympathetically. 'Quite right, m'dear, can't have the servants getting ideas above their station in life. What would become of us all then? I agree, my dear, some carefully chosen passages and that strictly reserved for a couple of hours on a Sunday.'

'Ah, blood will out, there's no doubt about it,' he was fond of quoting at the golf club to anyone prepared to listen, and sadly there were quite a few who agreed with his philosophy. Spens was regarded, however, as something of a bore, to be avoided if possible, especially as this was his hobby horse to be ridden on every occasion, an excuse for being an indifferent golfer.

'You can always tell. Look at those two young doctors,' he once said to his partner, patiently waiting to play his next shot. 'A fine example of breeding. High foreheads, classical features, splendid bone structure. No one could mistake them for the criminal classes.'

The doctors in question playing the hole ahead and unaware that they were the subject of Spens' attention were, in fact, Vince and Conan.

When it was pointed out to him that Dr Laurie was in fact Inspector Faro's stepson, Spens shuddered delicately but was prepared to overlook this shortcoming as a gross mismanagement of fate. He took refuge in mutterings about the Orkney people being different and that one could not account for the Viking influence, thereby completely missing the point that there was no blood relationship between the two men.

Conan Pursley did a wicked impersonation of the superintendent. He found him vastly amusing, until the day he was partnered with Spens in a match and was earnestly and enthusiastically discussing his work with the mentally disturbed. Spens sniffed and said abruptly that he was wasting his time and his medical knowledge in such endeavours and that all such people should be exterminated.

'Painlessly as possible, of course,' he added hastily, seeing Conan's grim expression. 'No one wants to cause them any extra suffering.'

Needless to say when reports of such encounters reached Faro's ears, he was not amused either. Those who saw them together guessed there was no love lost. If ever two men stepped off on the wrong foot, the superintendent and his senior detective were the perfect examples.

Right from the first meeting, Spens had been resentful, believing that Faro should have done the decent thing and retired at the same time as Mackintosh, instead of hanging on and keeping the exalted position from some younger man.

'After all, you'll soon be fifty. Can't expect expert efficiency at criminal-catching at that age. Stands to reason, body slows down. All that wear and tear through the years.'

Faro was outraged and kept his temper with some difficulty. It was clear that Spens based criminal detection on physical fitness rather than, first and most important, a fit and active mind.

What angered him more was that he was only a few years senior to Spens, but whereas that was perfectly all right for a superintendent sitting behind a desk, it was not the thing for a policeman regarded as finished at fifty despite all evidence to the contrary.

Or was it? He had to admit that on bad days his body was beginning to show ominous signs of wear, the effects of long-term ill usage, an unhealthy style of living with food too often forgotten or replaced by liquid meals in the form of drams or pints of ale. Thirty years of grappling with criminals had resulted in bullet wounds, knife scars and now a regrettable tendency for broken bones and wounds not to heal as fast these days.

Once he could ignore minor afflictions, now he was forced to admit that he no longer had sole command of that excellent working machine, his body. Of late the frosts of winter seemed to seek out all those injuries which were his legacy for active service with the Edinburgh City Police. Honourable scars, proudly won, but distinctly tiresome to a man whose round of criminal-catching might involve walking fifteen miles a day regardless of weather.

He was blessed with an iron constitution and a bone structure twice as strong as most mortal men, and this accounted for his survival against fearful odds. The gift of his Viking ancestry had seen him through many potential disasters. That and an extra sense, the 'second sight' his mother called it, warned him of dangers existing and gave him premonitions of those to come, hovering unshakeable and invisible, clouding his waking hours.

He fully realised that if the machine was no longer in good working order then he must think sensibly in terms of retirement, let younger men take over. Perhaps nature was telling him why he felt so apprehensive of what the future had in store. Or was it merely seasonal? he thought hopefully. The effect of gloomy winter days and chilly risings at six o'clock, whereas on summer mornings he cheerfully greeted the birdsong in his garden at first light.

Persuading himself that the weather was to blame, since the thought of an inactive life horrified him more than a quick sharp death, he was already dreading the approach of the next decade of his life.

He could not stay young for ever; growing old was inevitable, as natural as birth itself. Sometimes he was aware that at the back of his mind was a plan to defeat that dreadful prospect of retirement. He would use all the experience and expertise of his days with Edinburgh City Police and set up as a private detective, able to pick and choose what cases most intrigued him.

Travel had always been his other love; now he would have a chance to move further afield with his investigations as well as being free to go to Orkney and see his daughter Emily and her new husband on a long visit.

And then there was America and his ex-Sergeant Detective, Danny McQuinn. A new continent, new people and ways of life; that was the thought that most pleased and exhilarated him, for he had never been out of Britain in his life, hardly ever travelling any further south than the borders.

What a world of excitement awaited him beyond the confines of the English Channel. Paris, Italy, the Black Forest - he could visit them all and if he was bored he could confidently offer his services to the local chiefs of police!

Spens was regarding him across the desk. 'Got any evidence this time?'

'Not yet, sir.' He began patiently to explain the manner of the discovery.

Spens waved it aside. 'I know all that. Angus came in with a report on his way to the mortuary.' Head on one side, he beamed. 'My lad did very well, I gather. Very helpful to your two doctors. They must be quite proud of him.'

Pausing to give Faro a chance of favourable comment and disappointed not to receive any, he continued, 'Need a strong stomach for his kind of work. Always wanted to work on crime cases. Fascinated by all my books on the subject. Had to keep some of them out of his way, I can tell you, when he was a wee lad. His mother thought such things weren't decent reading for a youngster.'

He sighed happily. 'A little more experience and he'll be ready to assist the police surgeon. That should get it out of his system. He'll go far, I'm sure.' Again he paused. 'And what do you think, Faro?'

'Oh indeed, he'll go far, sir.' But Faro was careful not to state in which particular direction the overly ambitious young doctor would travel.

Later he sat down at his desk and wrote his report on the day's events, clearly and precisely, from the moment he had been summoned to the discovery of the body until it had left his sight to be carried to the police mortuary.

At this stage of the investigation, speculations were superfluous and he preferred to keep his observations to himself for the moment.

He glanced through some papers that needed his attention, put a note in his diary and hurried across to the Sheriff Court where he appeared briefly as a witness in a Customs and Excise fraud case.

The proceedings were lengthy and extremely tedious and he emerged feeling weary and dispirited. He had sat through so many identical cases that he almost welcomed a crime where he could use his own powers of deduction.

As he walked home down the Pleasance towards Newington, the church clock chimed four, but it was already dark, the road ahead filled with fitful moonlight.

A full moon, bright, exotic and mysterious, crept over Arthur's Seat. For some reason it made him think of Conan's story that nurses and wardens at the asylum walked warily when the moon was full.

'Throughout man's history, it has always been a time of vulnerability for the mentally disturbed. Even the mildest of patients become moody, their unpredictable behaviour dangerous to others as well as themselves.' Conan had smiled grimly 'We were warned to look over our shoulders, constantly on guard for an outbreak of violence. Moonstruck madness, they call it.'

Chapter 6

There were voices in the hall as Faro opened his front door. Kate had been visiting Olivia and, about to leave, she was fastening her cloak with its silver brooch which she wore constantly. Among many more valuable jewels, Faro guessed this was her favourite.

When he had first admired the unusual design of an owl perched on a crescent moon alongside a smaller moon bisected by a cross, she had touched it fondly: 'The owl moons clasper. Family heirloom, you know. Very precious. Given to us by Prince Charles Edward Stuart while he was in the Highlands raising the clans.'

Faro had suppressed a smile. So many houses allegedly told the same romantic tale of a prince in the heather, that he had slept in as many beds as his thrice great-grandmother Queen Mary, a far greater number than would have been needed during his short time in Scotland.

Olivia and Vince had been suitably impressed but Faro had thought little of the brooch as a genuine antique or as a work of art until Conan's parents visited Solomon's Tower that autumn.

William Pursley, landscape gardener to the aristocracy, could not forgo giving advice on the dense undergrowth that passed as a garden. Such a neglected wilderness was an unforgivable sin that outraged his sensibilities and before they could protest he was out with a spade, digging vigorously at the stubborn, tangled weeds of centuries past.

Suddenly he called to them and they trooped out to be confronted by a large square stone, weathered by the passing centuries.