Read Online Quest for a Killer by Alanna Knight - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alanna Knight
Ads: Link
indeed they still came to Mass occasionally. And as you know, suicide is strictly forbidden by our church.’
A moment while she let that sink in. ‘Brought up’ might indicate that they were lapsed Catholics. I had no idea if the Edinburgh City Police would consider this significant but it did throw a new clue into the matter.
Sister Clare took my silence as acceptance. ‘You will help us, Mrs McQuinn.’
I wasn’t at all sure what I could do to help but promised to give it some thought. They obviously considered this a foregone conclusion and were smilingly cheerful at the door and grateful when I thrust the bundle of clothes into Sister Clare’s hands.
Peeping into the bundle, she withdrew first my shabby cloak and beamed at me. Shaking it out and handing it to Marie Ann she said, ‘Here you are, this is perfect for you. Perfect for winter. You are always very good to us, Mrs McQuinn. God bless you for your kindness.’
She looked me up and down. ‘Marie Ann is exactly your own size, Mrs McQuinn. You are both so small and neat but the good Lord made good stuff in small bundles.’
I watched them walk down the road. A hooded man with a scarred face, two suicides imperilling their immortal souls if they were, or had been, good Catholics.
This was a new factor to discuss with Jack.
The sounds of the circus preparing for the day’s performance in Queen’s Park travelled across the hill. As I stood in Solomon’s Tower I thought about the sound from the circus, the short distance from the convent and from where I stood, and realised, perhaps for the first time, the significance of the fact that all these crimes had happened within Newington, a small suburb on the south side of the city.
And therefore, willing or no, I was part of it too. For the first time I felt vulnerable. Who was this strangerwho had threatened Marie Ann, hooded, scarred? And suddenly Arthur’s Seat took on a sinister aspect while I remembered those legends old as time itself.
I looked at Thane, happy at my side. Thane, whose mysterious appearance in my life four years ago had never been properly explained. I sighed; only he knew what was happening up there far above our heads, what strange hiding places and secret caves had existed long before man appeared to put down roots and live out his days on the slope of an extinct volcano.
Before the twentieth century the marks of the medieval monks’ ancient agriculture across the hillside were still clearly visible at sunrise and sunset, and their names remained with the shadows of the runrigs, despite all the progress of man.
If only Thane could speak, I thought yet again. How far back did his own strange history go? What were his origins? How had he evolved so complete, so neat and tidy to come to my door one day and set himself up as my rescuer, my protector, to whom I owed my life more than once? That could have been coincidence, but several times my logbook recorded cases where I had taken the wrong turning and become the hunted instead of the hunter.
I patted his head and he rewarded me with a pleased look. But he could still disappear, be absorbed back into these wild, lofty heights for lengthy periods, which I had learnt to accept, knowing that he would always return.
Sometimes he seemed able to exist without any food from me. This was once a cause of constant concern,until common sense told me that, although acclimatised to and accepting domestic life, he was still a hunter, a killer of small animals.
At least when the dark days arrived he was always back at the Tower by nightfall, much to my relief: having him at my side as the first storms of autumn shrilled across the hill was a comfort. Fallen leaves and debris thrown up against the windows could sound alarmingly like alien footsteps.
I pushed aside these thoughts of Thane, the mystery I would never solve. Standing there at my kitchen door, to the west, hidden by trees, the convent and its grounds; eastwards, the horizons
A moment while she let that sink in. ‘Brought up’ might indicate that they were lapsed Catholics. I had no idea if the Edinburgh City Police would consider this significant but it did throw a new clue into the matter.
Sister Clare took my silence as acceptance. ‘You will help us, Mrs McQuinn.’
I wasn’t at all sure what I could do to help but promised to give it some thought. They obviously considered this a foregone conclusion and were smilingly cheerful at the door and grateful when I thrust the bundle of clothes into Sister Clare’s hands.
Peeping into the bundle, she withdrew first my shabby cloak and beamed at me. Shaking it out and handing it to Marie Ann she said, ‘Here you are, this is perfect for you. Perfect for winter. You are always very good to us, Mrs McQuinn. God bless you for your kindness.’
She looked me up and down. ‘Marie Ann is exactly your own size, Mrs McQuinn. You are both so small and neat but the good Lord made good stuff in small bundles.’
I watched them walk down the road. A hooded man with a scarred face, two suicides imperilling their immortal souls if they were, or had been, good Catholics.
This was a new factor to discuss with Jack.
The sounds of the circus preparing for the day’s performance in Queen’s Park travelled across the hill. As I stood in Solomon’s Tower I thought about the sound from the circus, the short distance from the convent and from where I stood, and realised, perhaps for the first time, the significance of the fact that all these crimes had happened within Newington, a small suburb on the south side of the city.
And therefore, willing or no, I was part of it too. For the first time I felt vulnerable. Who was this strangerwho had threatened Marie Ann, hooded, scarred? And suddenly Arthur’s Seat took on a sinister aspect while I remembered those legends old as time itself.
I looked at Thane, happy at my side. Thane, whose mysterious appearance in my life four years ago had never been properly explained. I sighed; only he knew what was happening up there far above our heads, what strange hiding places and secret caves had existed long before man appeared to put down roots and live out his days on the slope of an extinct volcano.
Before the twentieth century the marks of the medieval monks’ ancient agriculture across the hillside were still clearly visible at sunrise and sunset, and their names remained with the shadows of the runrigs, despite all the progress of man.
If only Thane could speak, I thought yet again. How far back did his own strange history go? What were his origins? How had he evolved so complete, so neat and tidy to come to my door one day and set himself up as my rescuer, my protector, to whom I owed my life more than once? That could have been coincidence, but several times my logbook recorded cases where I had taken the wrong turning and become the hunted instead of the hunter.
I patted his head and he rewarded me with a pleased look. But he could still disappear, be absorbed back into these wild, lofty heights for lengthy periods, which I had learnt to accept, knowing that he would always return.
Sometimes he seemed able to exist without any food from me. This was once a cause of constant concern,until common sense told me that, although acclimatised to and accepting domestic life, he was still a hunter, a killer of small animals.
At least when the dark days arrived he was always back at the Tower by nightfall, much to my relief: having him at my side as the first storms of autumn shrilled across the hill was a comfort. Fallen leaves and debris thrown up against the windows could sound alarmingly like alien footsteps.
I pushed aside these thoughts of Thane, the mystery I would never solve. Standing there at my kitchen door, to the west, hidden by trees, the convent and its grounds; eastwards, the horizons
Similar Books
