Murder by Appointment: Inspector Faro No.10 Read online

  Murder By Appointment

  An Inspector Faro Mystery

  by

  Alanna Knight

  ALANNA KNIGHT has written more than fifty novels, (including fifteen in the successful Inspector Faro series), four works of non-fiction, numerous short stories and two plays since the publication of her first book in 1969. Born and educated in Tyneside, she now lives in Edinburgh. She is a founding member of the Scottish Association of Writers and Honorary President of the Edinburgh Writers’ Club.

  Chapter 1

  Detective Inspector Faro extracted himself with difficulty from the crowd of Edinburgh concertgoers leaving the Assembly Rooms that evening.

  His air of preoccupation had less to do with the splendid rendering of the Beethoven sonatas he had just heard, than with the identity of their performer, Lachlan Brown, the talented young Highlander who had sprung to fame and international acclaim during the last three years.

  Still deep in thought Faro negotiated Princes Street with its thin line of carriages, some carrying prosperous families homeward, some with curtained windows discreetly drawn against the curious. The occupants he guessed would be heading towards Leith Row's notorious howffs where their night's entertainment and revelry was about to begin. Other carriages were driven at reckless pace by arrogant young students with too much wealth and too few manners, as they hurled abuse at those pedestrians who tried in vain to cross the busy thoroughfare.

  Stepping aside in the nick of time, Faro regarded his narrow escape in disgust. He would have liked to snatch down some of those grinning youngsters and give them a good shaking. However, dignity prevailed. Decorum must be maintained by senior policemen.

  Vaguely declining the offer of a lift from one of his stepson's medical colleagues, he headed up the Mound and away from the main traffic, walked rapidly homeward in the direction of Newington.

  At last his pace slowed and, taking stock of his surroundings, he sighed deeply. Late spring with its burgeoning of new life in every garden and hedgerow was his favourite season.

  The evening was perfect with the promise of longer sunny days in store and, as he climbed the hill, moonlight outlined the castle far above him touching its windows with uneasy life, as if Queen Mary and those sad apparitions of her short and tragic reign still stalked its corridors.

  But it was the spectre of a time nearer to his own that haunted Faro. For once his thoughts had nothing to do with crimes, ancient or modern. Guilt perhaps, but definitely not crime as the Edinburgh City Police understood it.

  As he walked his footsteps echoed the final chords and the rapturous applause of Lachlan Brown's recital, the two encores before the audience would release him.

  Faro had observed it all closely from the most expensive seats. A vantage point from which not only the piano and the pianist's hands were clearly visible but, what concerned him more, the young man's face. The young Highlander had outstanding good looks, black hair, olive skin, full mouth and wide dark eyes. And listening to the brilliant performance Faro continually scanned that countenance, minutely searching for some resemblance to a well-known face, other than the one he had last glimpsed in Ballater several years earlier.

  He remembered the rumours concerning Lachlan Brown. In addition to undeniable talent, his spectacular rise to fame was the hint that he was 'an intimate relative of John Brown, the Queen's favourite ghillie and protector'. The bolder ones took it further, with hints that Brown was Her Majesty's unofficial husband whose public acknowledgement would sweep her from the throne and that Lachlan was Brown's illegitimate son from a youthful indiscretion the Queen was prepared to overlook.

  Faro knew that to be untrue. He had it from the lips of the boy's mother. Lachlan's paternity might be in doubt but John Brown was definitely not his father.

  He had almost reached the top of the Mound when, with the suddenness that characterised Edinburgh weather, the moon was obliterated by fast-moving clouds.

  'Stepfather!' The brougham stopped by him and Dr Vince Laurie leaned out. 'Jump in!'

  Olivia, Vince's wife, looked pleased as she made room for him. 'We usually go via the Pleasance, but we've just set down brother Owen in Heriot Row. He's staying with friends —'

  'I do really enjoy the walk, my dear,' Faro protested weakly.

  How to explain that the evening solitude of quiet streets was his favourite time of the day and walking was his own special way of solving problems, criminal or personal, or that a wealth of experience had produced nothing better for clearing the head than a brisk Edinburgh wind.

  'Are you sure?' said Olivia anxiously, regarding the sky. 'It's going to rain.'

  In two years of marriage, the young woman, who never took a step in town if it could be avoided or a carriage was at hand, continued to be baffled by her stepfather-in-law's eccentricities.

  'And why a policeman who walks considerable distances each day in pursuit of criminals can possibly claim to enjoy walking for pleasure is quite beyond me,' she told Vince on frequent occasions.

  Vince, however, understood a great deal about his stepfather that his wife had yet to learn.

  Now he turned to her and laughed. 'Give up, Livvy, do. You'll never persuade him.'

  Faro glanced at the sky above and shook his head. 'Not unless the heavens open, and I don't really think that is very likely.'

  'Be it on your own head, Stepfather!' said Vince, knowing he would never be able to convince dear Livvy about Faro's preference for going to concerts alone when she, fearing that he might be lonely, anxiously begged him to join their group of friends. Useless to try to explain without giving offence that he wished to enjoy and appreciate the music with single—minded devotion. And without the polite distractions offered by the frequent passage of boxes of chocolate and opera-glasses. Olivia on the other hand regarded such interruptions as a necessary part of an amiable social occasion.

  Saluting the departing carriage, Faro followed in its wake. Quickening his pace, absorbed by his thoughts, he was hardly aware that gentle moonlight had been replaced by swift-moving storm clouds.

  'Damnation!' he exclaimed as the first heavy raindrops splashed down and, diving for shelter into the nearest doorway, he watched helplessly as the cloudburst filled the gutters to overflowing, a channel of water soon flowing past him.

  At last the sound he most wanted to hear. An approaching vehicle! From the direction of the Mound, the familiar shape of an Edinburgh hiring carriage had him leaping out of his sheltering doorway.

  Signalling it to stop and thankfully about to climb aboard, he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.

  A breathless voice sobbed out, 'Help me, sir. I implore you, please help me.'

  Turning, he saw a middle-aged woman, shabbily clad. Her cloak and bonnet were dripping wet and she carried neither umbrella nor reticule. As she spoke, she held out trembling hands to him.

  Cursing his ill luck at being faced with the predicament of someone with a need obviously greater than his own, he gallantly stepped aside and with a bow murmured, 'By all means, madam—'

  But instead of accepting his offer and stepping into the carriage, she shook her head violently and clutched at his arm.

  'Please sir—I beg you. I’m in terrible danger—' And, pausing to glance over her shoulder, 'Please, try to understand. Those men—they're going to kill me—'

  Faro followed her pointing finger, squinting against the driving rain. He could see no one, but the poor woman was clearly overwrought. He decided to humour her.

  'Of course, of course.'

  'Thank you, sir, oh, thank you. God bless you, sir.' The accent was familiar and brought a fleeting sense of recogn
ition.

  As he leaned forward to help her into the carriage, two shadows emerged from the darkness. Two large heavy male shadows, breathing deeply as if they had run a considerable distance in search of their quarry.

  Faro's position with one hand assisting the woman up the step into the carriage and his back towards the two men, put him at a considerable disadvantage. The arm he thrust out was an instinctive movement, completely ineffectual to fend off the stout stick raised high in the air above him.

  It descended in vicious contact with his skull.

  As he heard the agonizing crack that splintered the night into sickening blackness, his last thoughts were: 'Now I'll never know the truth about Lachlan Brown.'

  Chapter 2

  A nauseous headache told him that he was still alive.

  He could take dubious comfort from that but was considerably surprised to find himself in his own bedroom in 9 Sheridan Place. His first thought was that the incident on the Mound had been one of the violent nightmares to which he was prone, paying dearly for something carelessly eaten that disagreed with his faulty digestion.

  The pain as he moved and touched the bandage about his head told him otherwise.

  A movement at the window indicated Vince hovering near by.

  'So you're awake. Thank God for that. I thought you might be heavily concussed.'

  When Faro groaned, Vince continued cheerfully, 'I should know something of the thickness of your skull by now. It's saved you many a time when lesser mortals would have met with certain death. I suppose it's that old Viking stock you have to thank—'

  'What happened?' Faro demanded weakly.

  Vince smiled wanly. Well, I was rather hoping you could give me the answer to that.'

  'I was attacked. I fell for the oldest trick in the book, lad. A woman in distress pleading with me while her confederates crept up from behind.'

  Vince looked at him quickly. Not like you to be fooled by that one, Stepfather.'

  'I thought I'd seen her somewhere before. That was what foxed me.'

  Vince was aware of his stepfather's remarkable memory for faces. 'And had you?'

  'Aye, back in the mists of time, the devil knows where.'

  But that was not the only reason, he thought If my mind hadn't been wrestling with Lachlan Brown's identity, my wits would have been sharper. And none of this would have happened.

  As they were speaking the hall clock struck midnight.

  'Just an hour ago,' said Faro. 'Seems more like a hundred years. How did I get here? Who brought me home?'

  Vince put a hand on his shoulder. We did. The rain was so torrential I decided we should go back for you. You couldn't have travelled very far and were probably taking shelter.'

  He shrugged. 'You may laugh, Stepfather, but I had one of my weird flashes—that you were in some kind of danger, and from more than pneumonia. I thought I was being an idiot—'

  He grinned apologetically but Faro knew better than to doubt Vince's strange intuitions which had saved them both from disaster in the past.

  'Lad, thank God you did come back.'

  'Livvy thought I was mad when I told Briggs: Back to the Mound. The rain had ceased, quick as it came. When there was no sign of you Livvy insisted you'd got a carriage and we'd missed you. But no carriage had passed us and none had we met. There was no sign of you. Then we saw what looked like a bundle of clothes in a doorway. It moved—I saw a hand— you know the rest,' he added grimly.

  There was silence for a moment then Faro asked, 'All right, what did they get? I suppose they took everything of value.'

  Vince handed him the jacket which hung over a chair. Faro went through the pockets. But none of his possessions was missing. His gold watch and chain, his leather notebook were there, also a purse of six sovereigns, very worthwhile pickings for any attacker. As was the gold wedding ring belonging to Vince's mother, which Faro carried next to his heart. It had been with him since the day he took it from her dead hand as she lay in her coffin beside their stillborn son.

  'Nothing taken. All intact,' he said.

  Vince looked puzzled. 'Are you sure?'

  'Absolutely sure.'

  'If it wasn't robbery, then what was their motive?'

  The two men were silent for a moment, then Vince said, 'When you're up to it give me precise details and I'll report your injury to the Central Office. Presumably they'll want to track down these villains.' He paused. 'If they didn't take anything, could this be revenge perhaps? Your last case as I remember was a bit tricky.'

  'All now safely behind bars, I assure you. Give me a pipe, will you.'

  As Faro struggled to sit up, Vince protested, 'I'm not sure that you should, Stepfather—I don't think—'

  'You're not required to think in this instance. But I damned well am. So give me a pipe, when you're told,' he added sharply.

  A few moments later Vince said, 'If only you'd been able to see their faces.'

  'At least I won't forget the woman's again, once I remember where we last met,' said Faro grimly. ‘I’ll certainly recognize her next time, that's for sure.'

  'But what was the motive, if it wasn't robbery or revenge?' Vince persisted. 'You must bear in mind that it might not necessarily be recent. After all, you must have made a lot of enemies over the years. It might be some villain recently released. Could it be that you had this woman's husband—or lover—put away? Could you have seen her in court?'

  Faro thought for a moment and shook his head, a gesture that pained him exceedingly. The effort of dredging up memory involved a mind that seemed unable to function.

  'What are we left with then? Hardly desperation for a carriage,' said Vince with a wry attempt at humour. 'I know they are hard to come by in Edinburgh at the best of times and especially in the rain—'

  Faro puffed steadily at his pipe before laying it aside. 'There are several possibilities and one in particular that I don't care to contemplate.'

  'You mean that the woman who appealed to you for help might not have been a trap?'

  'Precisely. She might have been in genuine danger. If so, God only knows what her fate was.'

  'What about the carriage—and the coachman?' Vince asked.

  'He was either bribed or in league with them. Perhaps I wasn't the fare he was told to uplift but, blinded by the rain and so forth, he made a mistake.'

  Attempting to swing his legs out of the bed, Faro stood up shakily. 'I'll see if there's anything been reported at the Central Office.'

  'Hadn't you better wait until morning, Stepfather? You're in no condition to travel anywhere—'

  'I'm in no condition to listen to medical advice, either, so let's get moving—'

  Faro walked unsteadily across the room, clutched the bedpost for support and said weakly, 'Get me a carriage, will you, lad. Now don't argue, do as you're told. And I won't disturb Briggs at this hour.'

  'Look, Stepfather, just stop being stubborn. It's for your own good. A day or two of rest and you'll be fine. You're not forgetting that Rose will be arriving at teatime. You don't want to distress her, by her seeing you like this. Now do you?' he appealed.

  Rose.

  Faro had momentarily forgotten Rose. The adored elder daughter whose intent upon what he considered an unsuitable marriage was his main domestic problem. The night's events had thrust her from his mind. And for once Faro allowed himself to be led back to bed, the covers firmly tucked about him.

  'Here, drink this,' said Vince.

  'A dram, is it?' he said hopefully.

  'It is not. A mild sedative that will ensure you sleep soundly.'

  Faro drank and leaned back against the pillows.

  Rose. She mustn't see him like this. He must be fit, his wits sharp to deal with her arguments. He closed his eyes. Visions of Lachlan Brown mingled with rain, and melodies from the Beethoven sonatas.

  Aye, the newspapers had got it wrong about Lachlan.

  And, as he was drifting into sleep, he heard a woman crying for help. He wa
s back on the Mound again, a woman's white face staring up at him, terrified. He tried to sit upright, stretch out a hand to help her. But Vince's sedative had turned his arms to water.

  That face. His pride and boast was that he never forgot a face. And the woman—the woman. Had he seen her before?

  A scene jogged across his vision. He almost had it, but even as he tried to put it into sharper relief, it vanished.

  Yes, he had seen her before. Somewhere in the untidy depths of memory, she was there.

  But where—when and where?

  Chapter 3

  Against Vince's professional advice, Faro presented himself at the Central Office of the Edinburgh City Police the following morning. His appearance, two hours later than usual, aroused some whispered speculation among the young constables on duty outside.

  Faro, fully aware of their interested attention, made a firm progress up the steps, his hat pulled well down over his forehead to conceal Vince's bandage. Considering the soreness of his head and the unsteadiness of his legs he was grateful for his stepson's insistence that Briggs drive him there in the brougham.

  'Anything to report?' he asked the man on desk duty.

  The constable looked at his list. 'Three breakins, two cases of assault, three of soliciting, oh aye, and at five this morning, a woman's body—carriage accident apparently.' He looked up. 'Bastard hadn't even stopped—'

  'Where is she now?'

  'Down below, sir. Don't you want the rest?' he added with another look at the list of minor crimes.

  But Faro was already heading swiftly along the corridor down the stairs that led into the chilly depths of the police mortuary. A grim place where, at the discretion of the police surgeon, unclaimed bodies became the property of his medical students after three days for the purpose of dissection.

  After all Faro's years as a policeman, the fate of unidentified sheeted corpses lying there never failed to chill his soul.

  Today there was only one body on a trestle in solitary isolation in the middle of the room.

  Dr Nichols, the police surgeon, looked up from his desk and greeted the Inspector cheerfully. His rotund body, white hair, luxuriant beard and rosy cheeks plus the permanent frown between his eyebrows suggested a genial Santa Claus who had found himself in the wrong role.