The Coffin Lane Murders by Alanna Knight

underwear or stockings. Although she had lain in the snowdrift all her linen looked fresh-laundered. There was a gold brooch and a wedding ring, a pair of fairly new boots and one patent shoe, which had presumably fallen out of the basket she was carrying.
    He recalled Conan picking it up and looking round for the missing partner.
    Dr Craig beamed at Faro. 'Same weapon as was used on the first victim, Inspector,' he said triumphantly. 'Could be the identical knife.'
    That was one possible link, thought Faro hopefully, as he asked, 'Any identification?'
    'Indeed yes. Here! This was in her outside pocket.'
    Another letter, but this time addressed to Mrs Ida Simms in Briary Road, Glasgow.
    Faro skimmed the contents. It was signed 'Yours affectionately, Mary Fittick' and the notepaper was headed 22 The Villas, Musselburgh.
    It appeared that Mrs Ida Simms was coming on a long-awaited visit to her friend and for the first time, since there were precise directions from the railway station at Waverley to the Pleasance where she would take the train from St Leonards to Musselburgh.
    'Fortunately for us, she didn't commit all these directions to memory,' he said.
    But what had led her to continue her journey past the station to Coffin Lane?
    He took a carriage to St Leonards where he was in luck. The Musselburgh train was just about to leave. He decided to interview Mrs Fittick and fully expected that she would reveal some link with her friend and the murder of Molly Blaith.
    Staring out of the window at the snow piled by the side of the line on the single-track railway, he was suddenly hopeful.
    Until the meeting with Mrs Fittick, he deliberately pushed to the back of his mind the idea that this was a random killing and that they had some kind of a maniac to deal with.
     
    The snow was even worse in Musselburgh, the roads mere tracks of brown slush, but at last he found his way to The Villas where a plump, pleasant-looking woman in her mid-forties opened the door to him.
    Her look of surprise changed to one of horror when he introduced himself, and producing the letter she had written to her friend, explained that Mrs Simms had met with a fatal accident.
    'Oh, how awful. I can't believe it. Poor dear Ida. She's always so careful about everything. It's this terrible weather. She must have slipped and fallen-'
    Alerted by her weeping, a younger version of the distraught woman rushed in and put a consoling arm around her.
    'I'm Tina - her sister. What's all this about?'
    As Mrs Fittick sobbed out that poor Ida was dead, Tina's angry, reproachful look in Faro's direction said quite pointedly that the whole thing was his fault.
    These were the times he hated most, having to break such news to family or friends. He had never had the heart for it. It sickened him, although other detectives in his senior bracket had no such compunction about handing over this worst part of the whole sordid crime business to some unfortunate constable.
    At last Mrs Fittick dried her eyes and sought to regain her composure. The letter Mrs Simms had carried lay on the table between them and Tina said, 'I have never met Ida, but Mary has talked about her for years. She was from Glasgow like us.' And with a compassionate sigh. 'They were best friends.'
    Mary put aside her handkerchief, straightened her shoulders, ran a hand across her hair. 'Make us a cup of tea, Tina, there's a good lass.'
    'You'll be all right?'
    'Of course I will. It's just the shock of it all.'
    As Tina departed, Mary Fittick took a deep breath between a sigh and a sob. 'Poor Ida. She was just coming on a visit. We used to work together in the factory. We hadn't met for oh, years, it must be, and not since poor Ida lost her man in a railway accident and she had to go out to work to make ends meet.
    'He hadn't left her comfortably off, ye ken. Bit of a drinker, he was, but good enough to her otherwise. Anyways, she hadn't had a break for years and now,' she added breathlessly, 'when I think how