Murders Most Foul by Alanna Knight Page A

boy’s mother, who had already stirred his senses.
    While Gosse was having a smoke outside, he had met thereturning coachman, whose enigmatic expression remained unchanged as he answered Gosse’s questions.
    ‘A satisfactory alibi. You can cross him off the list, Faro. Only one more and we’re finished …’ As he said the words, the front door opened to admit a tall, good-looking young man whose air of self-confidence proclaimed him to be Paul Lumbleigh. He was in his early twenties, but Faro recognised in his face the look that said he was already a man of the world.
    He regarded the two policemen with unconcealed disgust and, Faro thought, even a hint of anxiety.
    Archie appeared at the study door and somewhat harshly introduced the departing detectives as being here on a routine matter. ‘One of the maids has been murdered – but it’s got nothing to do with the family.’ Archie sighed. ‘Nothing you need concern yourself about.’
    Perhaps not an accurate observation, as Faro’s sharp glance detected a certain tightening of the young man’s lips. He made a mental note of a haunted expression that might well arise from feelings of guilt. Maybe he was innocent, but he did not share his stepfather’s reassurance on the matter of concern.
    The two detectives returned to the study where Archie and Paul sat down but they were to remain standing.
    Somewhat reluctantly Paul asked, ‘So what’s all this about?’
    Archie addressed Gosse impatiently. ‘This is a mere waste of time, Sergeant.’ And as Paul sprawled languidly in the nearest armchair, he added: ‘This is a great inconvenience, Sergeant, my son knows nothing of our domestic matters—’
    ‘At this stage it is a mere routine, sir. As I have alreadyinformed you,’ Gosse said patiently, ‘we are obliged to examine the deceased’s place of employment in case anyone may be able to contribute further knowledge of activities leading to … er … possible suspects.’
    But Faro was no longer listening.
    He had made an important discovery of his own.
    He knew the exact place where he had seen young Lumbleigh before. Outside the Vaudeville Theatre in Canongate, trying to persuade one of the chorus girls into his carriage. She was struggling and shouting and he, obviously very drunk, was laughing at her protests.
    Faro had stepped forward and said: ‘Let the young lady go, sir.’
    Paul had glanced up at him, trying with some difficulty to focus his eyes. Then looking the girl over with a lewd expression, he grinned. ‘I don’t see any young lady here. And it’s none of your business.’
    Faro repeated, ‘Let her go, sir. You’re drunk.’
    The girl had struggled free and Faro said: ‘Off you go, miss.’
    Paul scowled. ‘Hold on there. I bought her a drink, a promise was made.’ And to Faro, ‘I know what you’re up to. You can jolly well wait your turn, can’t he, sweetheart?’ He stretched out a hand to grab her, missed, and staggered.
    Faro laid a firm hand on his arm. ‘Leave her alone. Get yourself home and sober up, sir.’
    ‘And who the devil do you think you are to give orders?’
    ‘I’m a policeman.’
    ‘Are you serious? You don’t look like a policeman. If you’re a peeler then I’m the Prince of Wales.’
    Even out of uniform Faro had a presence and Paul triedto focus his eyes on this man who towered above him, tall, fair hair, with the kind of face he’d seen in pictures of Vikings. Sense filtered through the alcoholic haze as Faro produced a wallet, took out a card, confirming his identity. Not a man to tangle with.
    As for the girl, she had seized the opportunity to escape and Paul suddenly lost interest. Angry, frustrated, he tapped the roof of the carriage: ‘Drive on.’ And Faro watched as this uncouth, educated lout shouted an obscenity at him as the carriage disappeared.
    The memory of that encounter evolved into significance when he remembered taking Lizzie to the Vaudeville she loved. It was her favourite,