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photograph.
    McQuinn watched him. "So the case of Lily Goldie is finally closed, Inspector." He sounded relieved.
    "Is it? I wonder, McQuinn, I wonder." And with that enigmatic reply Faro stalked out of the office and slammed the door behind him, harder than was completely necessary. In the corridor he stopped. Was that McQuinn's suppressed laughter he heard following him, or was it only his over-sensitive imagination?

Chapter 3
     
    The case of Hymes and the Gruesome Convent Murders was forgotten as an uncommonly hot dry spell of weather brought a spate of stomach upsets. There were people who complained that the weather was to blame, and mark their words there would be an outbreak of typhus if it continued. The same folk belonged to the order of gloomy prophets who foretold that every winter chill would also carry off half the population to the kirkyard.
    No rain came, the skies remained obstinately blue and cloudless as handkerchiefs were pressed to noses by those forced to encounter the noxious odours emanating from narrow crowded city streets. An Edinburgh without rain was a phenomenon, especially as the mired stinking cobblestones relied upon frequent and heavy showers as Nature's way of keeping them fresh and clean.
    Meanwhile, in Faro's garden, the lilacs had their day, to be replaced by an abundance of June roses. He could not fail to notice that their perfume competed with a distinct smell of faulty drains. He also observed, with considerable delight, a great deal of domestic activity in his back garden, where blackbirds and thrushes had nested, the proud male parent easing the wearisome egg incubation of a mate with a dawn and eventide song of joyous exultation.
    Faro had little time to enjoy this novelty of his new home, happily distant from the city, for he was once again involved in the sordid crimes that lay behind the façade of city life. Thefts, embezzlements, sexual assaults, child prostitution—such were mere scrapings on the surface which respectable, prosperous middle-class Edinburgh was at pains to present to the world. Deaths there were too, in drunken fights and street accidents, but none that bore any resemblance to the murders of Lily Goldie or Sarah Hymes.
    At the end of a long day on a routine smuggling case at Leith Docks, Faro decided that, compared with the gruesome details of murder cases, there was something almost wholesome about cheating the revenue. Returning to the city, he saw that the radiant summer had temporarily disappeared in swirling mists which hid Arthur's Seat entirely and blotted out the Pentland Hills, but he felt strangely content as the omnibus set him down at the end of his street.
    Glad to be returning home, he put his latchkey in the door and found Mrs. Brook eagerly awaiting his arrival in order to announce a visitor.
    "A lady to see you. I put her in the drawing-room. Said it was urgent, poor soul. I just couldn't turn her away."
    Faro swore silently, his elation suddenly abated. Tonight, for the first time since illness had deprived him of all appetite and interest in food, he was feeling hungry, looking forward to the evening meal as appetising smells of cooking drifted up from the kitchen. Dear God, a visitor was the last thing he wanted.
    "Couldn't you have told her to come back tomorrow, got her to leave a message or something?" he demanded irritably.
    "I hadn't the heart to send the poor lady away, Inspector sir. She'd come all the way from Glasgow on the train. And in a terrible state, poor thing. I don't know when she last had a good meal." She lowered her voice with a glance towards the stairhead. "Very ill, she is, Inspector sir, if I'm not mistaken. Fair wrung my heart just to look at her."
    Mrs. Brook eyed his stony face reproachfully. "I took the liberty of reviving her with a wee sup of your brandy, sir." Leaning forward, she whispered confidentially, "Have no fears, Inspector sir. A proper lady, she is. You know I would never let the other sort in—I