Enter Second Murderer by Alanna Knight Page A

unfortunate creature is, she is certainly not Clara Burnleigh. There is not the slightest resemblance. Miss Burnleigh is very tall, with blonde straight hair, and she has excellent teeth."
    "You are quite sure?"
    "Sure, Inspector? I am positive. My eyesight is excellent and Miss Burnleigh was a particular favourite of mine—and, I would add, a girl of the highest moral principles. I cannot imagine that she would have allowed herself to join the ranks of fallen women or to commit the sin of self-destruction."
    There remained the Mad Baronet, or, to give him his proper name. Sir Hedley Marsh. Faro realised that there was much to be gained from an apparently accidental meeting, an informal chat, rather than a rush to the door with all the appearance of officialdom. He decided to keep a close watch on Solomon's Tower and the behaviour of its owner, behaviour that belonged more to the early days of constables patrolling on duty, to "watching and warding" rather than criminal investigation.
    At the local dairy, on pretence of being a cat-lover, he was soon informed that the Mad Baronet received his delivery for his score of cats by six o'clock. Faro suspected that, in common with many old people, the Mad Baronet rose early, and he decided to be passing the gate, on a "constitutional" himself, when the milk was taken indoors.
    As he lingered, the pale morning mist enfolded and chilled him. It brought back memories of his early days on the Force. Suddenly he felt old—too old for the job. Recent illness had so weakened him that it seemed to have destroyed not only his appetite but also his self-confidence. Once upon a time, before Lizzie died, he had been hopeful, believed in the immortal soul of man, and his job of dealing with crimes and criminals had never destroyed his faith in human nature, for he had discovered that, in even the worst of them, the good seed, microscopic perhaps, still flourished and could be encouraged to grow.
    When he had said this to Vince, the boy had laughed at him. "Good heavens, Stepfather, surely those are not the requisites for a good detective. You would have made priest or minister with such feelings—quite Christ-like and forgiving. Well, I never."
    Faro had laughed. "And you, dear lad, had you not chosen medicine, would have made an admirable detective."
    His thoughts were interrupted by the door of Solomon's Tower being thrown open as an avalanche of cats of all shapes, sizes, ages and conditions descended into the garden in the direction of the large milk churn at the gate. He was banking on the Mad Bart appearing himself. Having no servant was always something of a problem.
    If there had been a maid, he thought, I could have enlisted Vince's help and, with an elaborate pretence of admiring her fine eyes, flattered her into giving information. Even a fine sturdy coachman might have been wheedled by flattery—such splendid horses. But a baronet, mad or sane, who is also a hermit—there's a plaguey difficult situation.
    He did not have long to wait. The last of the cats were followed by a shambling figure, immensely tall and, despite hooded white hair and beard, Faro got an impression that he was strong still and powerfully built. It was, in fact, thanks to a piece of haddock retrieved from last night's supper that Faro had succeeded in gaining the attention of a handsome ginger tom, who leaped through the railings and bolted down the juicy morsel, giving polite thanks by an immediate caressing of Faro's ankles.
    "A fine fellow you have here."
    The hooded figure scowled and pretended not to hear. "Come in at once, Boxer. At once, sir."
    "Boxer, is that your name?" said Faro, addressing the cat. "You're a fine chap. And so
    friendly—"
    "Immediately, I said!" was the shout from inside the gate, and Boxer departed somewhat reluctantly.
    "I say—sir ..." shouted Faro, looking through the railings.
    "What is it?"
    "I don't suppose you'd have a kitten you could spare—to sell, I mean, to a good