overnight to keep us busy. Look at those. Three burglaries in the New Town, reports of poachers busy on the south side, domestic fights in Leith – that’s not news – except that the wife is in the Infirmary.’ Pausing he shook his head. ‘Four pickpockets arrested. Must be the full moon got to them.’
‘Maybe they are just taking advantage of the extra moonlight nature has obligingly provided, sir.’
‘Apart from your fanciful interpretations, Faro, the main thing that concerns us is that there has been another woman murdered. See for yourself.’ Ushering him in the direction of the mortuary, Gosse said grimly, ‘Lass that jumped off the North Bridge. She was killed first and her body thrown off the bridge, no doubt about that.’ Gosse shook his head. ‘According to Dr Grace, no evidence of pregnancy this time.’
Faro thought with compassion how frequently that was the cause of suicides with young unmarried girls, betrayed by lovers who were mostly married men. Many unfortunate women, too poor to afford more than a few coins, died under the backstreet abortionist’s crude knife; others took their own lives, unable or unwilling to face a future with the burden of an illegitimate child. Lizzie had been one of the brave ones, an exception.
Gosse said: ‘This was no suicide. She was strangled. Nothing on the body to identify her, clothes suggested working class, servant maybe.’
Faro felt a chill of dread as he followed Gosse. Sheeted,on a trestle, a young girl who might well be the missing Ida.
‘Any identification?’
Gosse shook his head. ‘Not as yet, I gather.’
Dr Grace, the police surgeon, had heard them. He came over.
‘We have some information. Your colleagues always search the spot for possessions after removing the body. In the fall they can be scattered in a wide surrounding area. Well, they found in a clump of bushes, a reticule. It contained a note to her parents, letting them know she would be in Gretna Green getting married.’
With sinking heart, Faro asked: ‘Was the name Watts?’
Gosse’s eyes widened. ‘How the devil do you know that?’ In answer, Faro pointed to the missing persons report. ‘I don’t think you need to read this, Sergeant. We know who she was, poor lass.’
Gosse took the paper to the light, read it, and picked up the list the police surgeon had brought in.
He swore under his breath. ‘There’s something else, Faro, for your interest,’ he added grudgingly. ‘Among other things in that damned reticule, a playing card. We could say she had been a gambler and lost—’
‘Was it the nine of diamonds, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Gosse shortly and glanced towards the sheeted figure. ‘Our killer’s third victim. And as there was no evidence of pregnancy, maybe he killed her for the wrong reason.’
Laying the report aside he turned to the official missing persons statement, and reading the signature he said: ‘This Lizzie Laurie, describes herself as a servant. At Lumbleigh Green.’
He had no reason to connect her with his detective constable’s ‘young lady’ but Faro’s heart sank, expecting trouble as the sergeant’s eyes brightened with sudden hope.
‘We’d better head there right away. I suspect that’s where we’ll find our answers – and our killer too.’
And Faro’s scalp crawled, a familiar instinct of foreboding, as he followed Gosse out of the Central Office and headed down the High Street on their way to yet another murder investigation.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As they made towards the handsome mansions bordering Dalkeith Road, Faro and Gosse were glumly silent. Both guessed what lay in store, that their presence would be ill received by the owner, indignant because a maid in his employ, who he didn’t even know and wouldn’t recognise, had been murdered.
Lumbleigh Green presented a scene of perfect tranquility and affluence behind its closed gates. The sun shone down benignly on Arthur’s Seat, touching impressive gardens
‘Maybe they are just taking advantage of the extra moonlight nature has obligingly provided, sir.’
‘Apart from your fanciful interpretations, Faro, the main thing that concerns us is that there has been another woman murdered. See for yourself.’ Ushering him in the direction of the mortuary, Gosse said grimly, ‘Lass that jumped off the North Bridge. She was killed first and her body thrown off the bridge, no doubt about that.’ Gosse shook his head. ‘According to Dr Grace, no evidence of pregnancy this time.’
Faro thought with compassion how frequently that was the cause of suicides with young unmarried girls, betrayed by lovers who were mostly married men. Many unfortunate women, too poor to afford more than a few coins, died under the backstreet abortionist’s crude knife; others took their own lives, unable or unwilling to face a future with the burden of an illegitimate child. Lizzie had been one of the brave ones, an exception.
Gosse said: ‘This was no suicide. She was strangled. Nothing on the body to identify her, clothes suggested working class, servant maybe.’
Faro felt a chill of dread as he followed Gosse. Sheeted,on a trestle, a young girl who might well be the missing Ida.
‘Any identification?’
Gosse shook his head. ‘Not as yet, I gather.’
Dr Grace, the police surgeon, had heard them. He came over.
‘We have some information. Your colleagues always search the spot for possessions after removing the body. In the fall they can be scattered in a wide surrounding area. Well, they found in a clump of bushes, a reticule. It contained a note to her parents, letting them know she would be in Gretna Green getting married.’
With sinking heart, Faro asked: ‘Was the name Watts?’
Gosse’s eyes widened. ‘How the devil do you know that?’ In answer, Faro pointed to the missing persons report. ‘I don’t think you need to read this, Sergeant. We know who she was, poor lass.’
Gosse took the paper to the light, read it, and picked up the list the police surgeon had brought in.
He swore under his breath. ‘There’s something else, Faro, for your interest,’ he added grudgingly. ‘Among other things in that damned reticule, a playing card. We could say she had been a gambler and lost—’
‘Was it the nine of diamonds, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Gosse shortly and glanced towards the sheeted figure. ‘Our killer’s third victim. And as there was no evidence of pregnancy, maybe he killed her for the wrong reason.’
Laying the report aside he turned to the official missing persons statement, and reading the signature he said: ‘This Lizzie Laurie, describes herself as a servant. At Lumbleigh Green.’
He had no reason to connect her with his detective constable’s ‘young lady’ but Faro’s heart sank, expecting trouble as the sergeant’s eyes brightened with sudden hope.
‘We’d better head there right away. I suspect that’s where we’ll find our answers – and our killer too.’
And Faro’s scalp crawled, a familiar instinct of foreboding, as he followed Gosse out of the Central Office and headed down the High Street on their way to yet another murder investigation.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As they made towards the handsome mansions bordering Dalkeith Road, Faro and Gosse were glumly silent. Both guessed what lay in store, that their presence would be ill received by the owner, indignant because a maid in his employ, who he didn’t even know and wouldn’t recognise, had been murdered.
Lumbleigh Green presented a scene of perfect tranquility and affluence behind its closed gates. The sun shone down benignly on Arthur’s Seat, touching impressive gardens
Similar Books
