Quest for a Killer by Alanna Knight Page A

in my direction. As I put a coin in the box, she whispered urgently, ‘Mrs McQuinn, it is good to see you. The good Lord has answered my prayer. I was coming to call on you – will you be so kind as to look in at the convent as soon as you can?’
    I was eager to hear more, she shook her head: ‘I can’t talk here. Please come…’ and was off again, fast disappearing among the folk watching the clowns.
    However, meeting Elma that particular afternoonmomentarily pushed aside all thoughts of Sister Clare’s anxious face.
    Elma loved shopping and it was part of this new friendship that I was included, my opinion sought on gloves and blouses and millinery, as well as lace negligees.
    ‘What do you think? Will Felix like this one – or will he think this too daring?’
    I found all of this very odd indeed and yet another example of Elma’s poor observation skills: I had not the slightest interest in the latest fashions – as long as I was decently clad and warm with clothes adaptable for bicycling, I didn’t care.
    We were to meet in the restaurant as usual; today I found her in animated conversation with a familiar face. My old school friend, Alice Bolton, who greeted me warmly.
    ‘So you two know each other!’ Elma exclaimed.
    ‘We do indeed.’ We exchanged glances and Alice said, ‘How are you, Rose?’
    As we talked as women do, catching up with past events, I thought I intercepted an uneasy warning glance from Alice when Elma asked where and when we had last met.
    I smiled as Alice said hastily that we met quite often for lunch. In fact, it was during our momentous and totally unexpected meeting four years ago, when I first arrived in Edinburgh, that the sinister tale of Alice Bolton’s troubled marriage provided the stepping stone for the career of Rose McQuinn, Lady Investigator, Discretion Guaranteed.
    A polite argument over the bill ensued between the two women and at last Alice left us with promises to meet again soon.
    Some time later, with purchases made to Elma’s satisfaction, we parted company outside the shop. The rain was lashing down and the doorman shepherding us under a vast umbrella hailed a cab and helped pack Elma’s multitude of boxes inside.
    As she settled down, she said, ‘I am so looking forward to this evening. Felix is longing to meet you. Just the three of us, quite informal, so you can get to know each other. Such an awful day. Jump in and we will take you home.’
    One look at the piled-up seat beside her suggested that it would be an uncomfortable journey, with little room in a hiring cab for an extra passenger.
    However, as always with Elma, an argument followed and I insisted that I did not wish to return home as I had matters to attend to in the Pleasance. Despite her protests, I suspected that Elma was secretly relieved when she considered the hatboxes and all her latest acquisitions.
    ‘Until later, then,’ she called. ‘The carriage will come for you at seven o’clock.’
    I retreated once more into the shelter of Jenners and remained there looking at the haberdashery counter, considering gifts I could afford: presents to send to Orkney in time for Christmas, for my sister Emily and my little nephew.
    When I looked out again, the heavy shower had abated into a mere drizzle and with the umbrella, myconstant companion these days, I hurried homeward across Waverley Bridge, the High Street now silent, devoid of the clowns, the crowds chased away by the sudden rainstorm.
    The nuns with their collecting tins had also taken shelter and I remembered once again Sister Clare’s anxious expression and her note of urgency.
    My visits to the convent were rare indeed. I wasn’t Catholic but I received a special invitation when they had any fund-raising occasion for their orphans. The convent had a special place in my heart as it was also the orphanage which had taken in Danny McQuinn when he was brought across from Ireland by his uncle, the sole members of their family who had