Deadly Beloved (11 page)

Faro nodded. "Just my findings so far. Possible suspects, motives and so forth."

Vince held out his hand. "May I?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Stepfather. I've always tried to help in the past and this time, more than any other, I have a personal score to settle."

"All right, lad. Read it if you like. It won't take long."

Vince scanned the two pages. "I think you can dismiss the maid and housekeeper as possible suspects. Both are relative newcomers to the Kellar household and they have nothing but praise for Mabel. Besides they have no motive."

He paused and shook his head. "It would have made a lot more sense if Kellar had been the victim. I can just imagine him presenting an irresistible murder target for an ill-used domestic."

"Does anything strike you as significant about this case, Vince?"

Vince thought for a moment."Yes. This is a man's crime. All the evidence points to a strong man, wielding the carving knife and," he added with a grimace, "disposing of the body. You agree?"

"My conclusions entirely."

"So it would seem that the doctor is the prime suspect."

"As yet, yes."

Vince frowned. "There is a possibility, of course, that there was no motive. That one of his fits of irritation with Mabel became uncontrollable, carried him across the threshold of normality and he suffered a brainstorm."

"Aren't you forgetting the carving knife?"

"Yes, I am. Of course one hardly embarks on a peaceful journey to the railway station carrying a carving knife. I agree that has very sinister implications."

"But if it had all been carefully planned — let us suppose that we are right and Kellar tricked his wife into believing he was driving her to North Berwick and then murdered her. Surely he disposed of that damning evidence in a remarkably clumsy fashion?"

"I agree, Stepfather, but again this is not beyond the bounds of possibility. In a medical study of the behaviour of wife-murderers, even the most fiendish and calculating have been known to give way to moments of blind panic."

Faro tried to picture the scene: Kellar poised over his wife's dead body, in that terrible moment when the red murder light faded from his eyes. Horrified, sated with blood lust, had he seen the railway line as a hell-sent opportunity of diverting suspicion?

He glanced at his notes. "The only other male employees, I gather, are a jobbing gardener."

"I've met him. Had a word about roses — his passion. He's a harmless old lad who comes in twice a week in the summer and is never allowed to set foot inside the house. Not much for him to do this time of year."

"There's also an occasional coachman."

"He would be from a hiring firm Kellar and all the doctors use. Ambley's at Newington Road."

"I'll have the constables make a routine check."

"I doubt whether that'll reveal any motives for Mabel's murder."

"Fragments, lad. That's what we're after. Minute pieces of information, observation. They are most often the pieces of the puzzle which seem quite irrelevant but when put together give us the face — and the motive — of our murderer."

"I hardly think you need bother with exhaustive enquiries in this case. If Kellar did it, we only need to know why, where and how he disposed of — of her," said Vince.

"Know anything about her sister, Mrs Findlay-Cupar? I shall have to go and see her in North Berwick."

"I gather that they were very close, quite devoted. Mabel talked a lot about Tiz, that's her nickname. I think she could be ruled out of your list of suspects. What about her uncle? He's mad enough to do anything."

Faro shook his head. "I think we know that the Mad Bart's reputation is based on eccentricity, rather than dementia."

"Well, as she's his heiress," said Vince dubiously, "I'd say he would bear some investigation."

Faro smiled at his grim expression. "Prejudice, lad. Prejudice."

"Of course it isn't," replied Vince crossly.

"All right. Item one, his hands are twisted with rheumatism. As a doctor you must have noticed he has difficulty lighting a pipe so I don't imagine he'd be very deft with a carving knife. Item two, if Mabel was killed on the train, then we're looking for an agile man, strong, quick-witted, quick-moving. I think we can safely dismiss from our list of suspects an infirm old chap, who shambles along with the aid of a stick."

"I suppose strong, quick-witted and quick-moving couldn't possibly include Mrs Eveline Shaw either," said Vince. "I see you put a tick against her name."

"Not as a suspect. Only because as Mrs Kellar's dearest friend and companion — isn't that how she described her to us? — she might know something important."

"In what way?"

"In the way of confidences. Something from the past that would shed an interesting light on an apparently blameless life."

"I can assure you ..."

But Vince's assurances went unuttered. The doorbell announced the arrival of yet another of his young doctor friends, who was calling for news about Walter.

Faro left the house very thoughtfully. His discussion with Vince had revealed only one true suspect. And that was, as it had always been, Kellar. Most damning of all was the absence of a body and although all the evidence so far silently accused Mabel's husband, as yet no motive for her murder was apparent.

He was not looking forward to confronting Kellar with his false alibi and demanding from him a satisfactory account of his movements that Monday, when he was not giving a lecture, as he had led them to believe. Here was another inconsistency in behaviour. Why had he told such a stupid lie when he must have known that it could be checked?

Even more important, Faro was aware of a nagging feeling of unease, insistent as a dull toothache, at the back of his mind. He knew what that meant. He had overlooked something vital, some very significant detail had not registered on that first visit to the house.

He decided that a vague excuse for another look around the house would be worthwhile, again choosing a time when, hopefully, the master was absent.

Considering that physical exercise was always beneficial in the process of mind-clearing, he walked the short distance to the Grange, having to take frequent refuge from the spray of unpleasantly brown slush sent flying by the wheels of passing coaches. He found that his concentration was needed less in agitating his powers of deduction than in keeping his feet as his boots slipped constantly on the treacherous expanses of frozen snow. He was glad indeed to reach the drive leading to the Kellar house although walking was still hazardous. At last he reached the front door and with his hand on the bell, he heard his name.

The maid Ina was approaching from the direction of the coach house, slithering across the icy surface, hampered by a pail and scrubbing brush.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Inspector," she said breathlessly. "I've been cleaning the master's carriage. Such a mess it's always in. He goes shooting on a Wednesday afternoon and then he complains to us that the upholstery was all stained."

Faro was hardly listening. A bloodstained carriage. Was this what he had been expecting to find, that vital missing clue?

As if she had read his mind, Ina gave him a sideways glance and with a small shudder, whispered, "I couldn't get it clean so when I showed it to Mrs Flynn, she said it looked like blood to her. I came over all queasy. But Mrs Flynn says what can we expect with the kind of work the master does."

"Shooting game can make quite a mess," said Faro in reassuring tones, so as not to alarm her.

She shook her head. "He doesn't put them inside the brougham. Mrs Kellar would never allow that. Smelly stuff. Has a special box for his rabbits and birds at the back."

Faro decided not to panic her by asking to inspect the carriage. He resolved to make a discreet and solitary visit to the coach-house a little later, after learning more about the stained upholstery from Mrs Flynn.

Leaving Ina in the hall, he found the housekeeper in her gloomy retreat below stairs. Almost dark, it was one of those winter days that is never really light and the hours designated daytime slide imperceptibly into night at about three in the afternoon. In the dim light from the high barred windows, Mrs Flynn was rolling pastry on the kitchen table. She stared at him over her spectacles and resumed her task without comment.

"Ina let me in. I met her coming from the coach-house. Seems she's been having problems cleaning the brougham."

As he spoke to her, he wondered how on earth anyone managed to prepare food with little more than a feeble gas jet and the firelight from an indifferent blaze. Presumably domestic servants who live subterranean existences in large houses are like cats and of necessity have to develop their faculties for hunting in the dark.

"Oh yes, the master likes it cleaned every time he uses it, at least twice a week according to him, but being on notice, I forgot and I wasn't reminded by the mistress before she left." Her cold, he noticed was worse, and her voice fainter than ever. "I've had a lot to do, so it got left. The master complained the other day. Just like a man, never notice anything but what's wrong. Suddenly he was shouting about how dirty it was. I sent Ina out but she couldn't get it clean. The upholstery was badly marked."

"Have you any idea what caused the marks?"

She shrugged. "Couldn't really say, Inspector. I said to Ina when it wouldn't come out that it might be blood. She said she'd faint. But I said with his work, what can you expect? I told her salt's the thing that moves blood, works every time."

So that piece of evidence which could have been damning might also have disappeared.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

"I would like to have another look at Mrs Kellar's bedroom."

She nodded. "I'm sure that will be all right, Inspector. You know the way. I'll come up directly."

He was glad of the chance to look around alone, but that quick inspection told him nothing. Everything was pristine, neat, as it had been the first time. He had a quick look in the wardrobe and the drawers opened without noise. He closed them almost hastily, with an apologetic feeling of guilt at the idea of examining all those elegant, lace-bedecked items of intimate feminine attire.

If Mrs Kellar was unhappy then it wasn't from the lack of worldly possessions and he thought of his dear Lizzie with sudden compassion. In all their married life she never possessed more than 'one for best, two for everyday'. The sad thing was that she felt that three of everything was a matter for pride, not deprivation.

Again he touched the silver brushes, toilette set and locked jewel case. Faro lifted it and it felt heavy. Perhaps that: was the reason she had left it behind.

He stared at his own reflection in the mirror and saw Mrs Flynn watching him, her stout shape framed by the door.

"Everything all right, sir?"

"Seems to be." He felt the statement needed further qualification and added, "Always have to have a second look, you know."

Waiting for him to leave, she closed the door and followed him downstairs. As Faro picked up his hat, she took from the hall table a newspaper, and opened it so as not to disturb the folds. "I often have a quick glance, before the master sees it. I wonder if you can tell me what this is all about?"

She handed the folded paper to him and he read:

Gruesome Discovery on Railway Line

A railway worker Ian Brown of Longniddry today discovered a large parcel containing a woman's sable cloak of considerable value and a carving knife, lying by the side of the line at Longniddry Station. Both items which had lain under the snow for several days were heavily stained with blood and Edinburgh City Police have been called in to investigate this discovery.

Faro returned it to her and she said anxiously, "The mistress was wearing her sable cloak, as you know, when she went to North Berwick. Has this anything to do with her disappearance?"

"We're looking into it, Mrs Flynn, that is all I can tell you at the moment."

"Ina will have told you that one of the carving knives has gone."

"Yes, she did." Faro hoped his reply was unconcerned.

"Oh, well, I suppose that's all right then."

She sounded relieved and Faro smiled. "Carving knives aren't exactly unique, Mrs Flynn."

He didn't want to scare the woman or Ina or let them get the impression that they were living in a house where the master had done in the mistress and, knowing his terrible temper, they might be next on the list.

Making sure that he was unobserved, Faro made a detour to the coach-house. The door was unlocked and the brougham was sparkling clean, the air redolent with the smell of cleaning fluid. He inspected the upholstery with its barely visible stains. There was no way of identifying the faint yellow marks now or testing out the new experiments Vince had told him about, of distinguishing human and animal blood.

Faro hailed a passing cab near the Grange. Unless Dr Kellar could produce a convincing alibi, things looked black indeed for him and as Faro was set down outside Surgeons Hall, he had a feeling they weren't going to get any brighter for a very long time.