Murder by Appointment: Inspector Faro No.10 Read online

  And as if he had heard the unspoken question, the young man's head jerked upright. Leaning forward he said, 'I suppose you are wondering what brings me to your door instead of directly to the police station, Mr Faro. I'll come to the point. It's like this, sir. Someone is trying to kill me ...'

  Chapter 5

  'Someone is trying to kill me ...'

  The words reverberated in Faro's mind, touching echoes of the woman who had recently died.

  Lachlan Brown watching his expression laughing uneasily. 'You see, someone took a pot shot at me last night as I was leaving the Assembly Rooms.'

  'Were you hurt?'

  'No, no. Not at all. He—whoever it was—missed me by inches. I think a rifle was used and fired from a passing carriage.' He paused and sighed. 'My guardian angel must have been hovering. You see, it was windy when I closed the door and I dropped one of my sheets of music—a new piece, one I'm composing. I had stayed on to rehearse it since the piano in my lodging is pretty deplorable. Anyway, as I bent to pick it up, I heard the shot—'

  Again he stopped, shuddered as if remembering, and diving into his pocket he threw a bullet down on the table. 'There!'

  Faro picked it up. 'Remarkable. But tell me, how did you come by this?'

  'If it had hit the stonework, and ricocheted I'd never have found it. But I noticed the woodwork of the door jamb behind me was splintered and I dug it out.'

  'With great presence of mind, may I say,' said Faro, picking up the bullet and rolling it between his fingers.

  Lachlan beamed on him. ‘Yes, wasn't it?'

  Faro decided that the young man was either very brave or exceedingly foolish as he asked, 'Were you not afraid whoever shot at you might return when they saw they had missed their target?'

  Lachlan shook his head. 'I suppose they thought that they'd got me. I went straight on to the ground and stayed there— when I heard the shot.'

  'Very quick thinking on your part. And highly commendable in such circumstances.'

  The young man smiled wryly. 'I've travelled in some lawless towns in America during the last year. I know something about guns—and gunmen.'

  'Well, well. Do you indeed?' Faro considered the bullet in the palm of his hand. 'And have you any idea then why anyone should want to kill you?'

  Again Lachlan shook his head. 'I have my off moments like most musicians.' His laugh was without merriment as he continued, 'However, I have never considered that I gave a bad enough performance to merit being murdered for a poor rendering of the Beethoven sonatas.'

  'So there are no enemies that you can think of?'

  'None that I know of, aforesaid passionate music lovers excepted.'

  'No jealous rivals who might pay someone to get rid of you?'

  Lachlan laughed. 'Good Lord no, Mr Faro. I'm just an average good musician—I'm not a genius. There are many as good even better than I am. But to be frank with you, they don't have the publicity of a somewhat notorious Royal association.'

  'Come now, you are underestimating your talents. I have heard you play—'

  Lachlan made a dismissive gesture. 'As far as I'm concerned it's a big world, Mr Faro. There are a lot of concert halls to fill, room for an awful lot of good pianists.'

  Faro smiled. He liked this young man. He had a refreshing honesty and no airs and graces. A tribute to John Brown's down-to-earth no-nonsense influence.

  'I presume there must be some reason why you did not immediately summon the police. And you should have done so as it might have been possible to track them down—'

  ‘You know the answer well enough, Mr Faro. Imagine how it would have sounded in the newspapers. The billboards would have had a heyday: "Protege of John Brown in mystery murder attack." And that is putting it very mild indeed. My imagination can stretch much further,' he added shrewdly, 'As I am sure, sir, can yours.'

  Faro was silent as Lachlan continued, 'We have all heard the rumours concerning a Royal person. And that is the kind of publicity I do not care to court. I can fill my concert halls adequately without that kind of notoriety, thank you.'

  But Faro's mind was racing ahead. He was thinking of that other murder carriage in the Mound. And the dead woman who had begged for his assistance. Was this another, less successful attempt by the same assassins? And if so what was the connection between a poor serving woman and Lachlan Brown?

  'Tell me, did anything strange—I mean out of the ordinary routine—happen that night before you left the theatre?'

  Lachlan thought for a moment. 'Nothing important. As you can imagine, I am exhausted, pretty shattered by the end of a performance. I give it all I've got, my entire being, all my concentration as well as tremendous physical effort. I had also been working on a new piece—my own composition. I was very excited about it as I'd just thought of the last few bars, how exactly it should end, that very morning walking in Princes Street Gardens. With the recital over, I was longing to work on it. That was why I stayed on.'

  'Did anyone know of your plan?'

  'No. It was quite spontaneous. Spur-of-the-moment decision.'

  How then had the assassins known? Had they been lying in wait for his eventual emergence from the Assembly Rooms? That would not have been difficult as there were always carriages waiting for fares in George Street late at night.

  'I frequently get supper invitations,' Lachlan continued 'but I prefer to go back first to my hotel for a wash and a change of linen.' He frowned and then exclaimed! 'Now I remember! There was something different last night.' At Faro's hopeful expression he sighed, 'Not very helpful and not in the least sinister, I assure you.'

  'No matter,' said Faro. 'Please go on.' There was always the possibility of a lead, no matter how improbable the circumstances.

  'Well, I was about to leave when an oldish man popped his head round the dressing-room door. A fan, it seemed, who had got past the attendants.'

  He smiled. 'But this one was from long ago. He introduced himself, but I didn't get his name. Davy Mac-something or other. But it seemed he was a great friend of Uncle John's. They had grown up together in Glen Gairn and he had known me when I was a wee lad. Did I not remember him? he asked. He had carved a wee boat for me to sail in the burn. I remembered the boat clearly but not the giver, alas. You know how it is with young children,' he added apologetically.

  'I felt particularly ungrateful because he was obviously on hard times. He said he was living in Edinburgh now and when he saw my name on the board outside, he felt impelled to look in for auld lang syne. As he was talking I saw how shabby he was, a thin worn jacket two sizes too small for him, obviously a hand-down, a threadbare muffler round his neck. Frankly, he looked like a frail old beggarman you'd meet any day on the High Street.'

  He shrugged. 'He showed no signs of leaving and in one of those rather long and embarrassing silences when neither of us could think what to say next, I asked politely if he was a music lover—presuming, of course, that he had been at the performance. The poor old chap blushed, studied the floor intently and mumbled that a shilling was more than he could afford and even if he understood music, the fiddle was as far as it went with him. As for a shilling, well, that would buy him food for a week.

  'I knew I had guessed right, and the real reason for his visit was obvious. He was hoping I might give him some money. That was what he was leading around to, but too proud to do more than hint. I was damned sorry for poor old Davy. I had a jacket hanging on the back of the door, one of these horse-blanket things, violent red and yellow checks, I was given in America by a fan. I only brought it with me because I know from bitter experience that hotel bedrooms and empty concert halls, when I'm rehearsing, can be very chilly.

  'I saw him eyeing it. It was thick and warm and I knew I'd never have a better reason for disposing of it or to a better cause. So I gave it to him. He put it on then and there, hugging it to him. The violent colour didn't seem to bother him. I thrust a sovereign into his hand to go with it. He protested weakly but I could see he was deli
ghted—and grateful. As he was leaving, he turned and said, "God be good to you, Mr Lachlan. And you be careful, take care, take good care." When I laughed and said indeed I would, he was suddenly very serious. He took my hand and said, "I mean it, young sir you watch your step. Be very, very careful." '

  Lachlan sighed. 'In view of what happened a few minutes later, his words might well have been prophetic, don't you think?'

  An interesting encounter, or a coincidence? Was Lachlan putting too much meaning into the man's parting words.

  Apart from the carriage there was little evidence to connect Lachlan's attackers with those on the Mound. As Faro was thinking of a suitable reply, the hall clock melodiously struck the half-hour. Lachlan shot out of his seat.

  'I really must go, Mr Faro. I've taken up enough of your time and I'm late for my rehearsal.' He paused. 'Thank you for listening to me. I shall leave it all to your discretion—I mean, what if anything I should do about it.'

  He smiled. 'I thought it was only in the American west that men drove along those streets and took pot shots at passers-by. I've told myself that perhaps it was some drunken revellers here—young blades, I think they call them.'

  Faro regarded him sternly. Drunken revellers there were, but armed drunken revellers were something new and unique in Edinburgh. 'You can dismiss that theory from your mind. I don't think these bad habits have crossed the Atlantic into Edinburgh—particularly into George Street. There's plenty of room in our cells for those sort of lads,' he added grimly.

  'So you think I should report it,' said Lachlan reluctantly.

  'I will look into the matter personally. And I will do my best to see that it is not made public.'

  'I'll be grateful, Mr Faro.'

  As Faro rose from his desk, he felt there was still a great deal unsaid, unsayable, and that the would-be assassin's identity masked a sinister purpose greater than jealousy or revenge. But what?

  Preparing to part, the two shook hands. Lachlan hesitated then said quietly, 'I had another reason for coming to you, sir. My mother—my mother said that if ever I found myself in danger or in trouble of any kind, you were a friend I could rely on and that I was to come to you.' Again he paused. 'My mother thinks highly of you, Mr Faro. Very highly.'

  A now thoroughly confused Faro was spared the embarrassment of thinking of a suitable reply as, about to ask politely after Inga St Ola's health, he was interrupted by the front doorbell pealing shrilly through the house.

  'I must go,' said Lachlan. 'Goodbye, sir, and thank you again.'

  There was a sound of light footsteps, familiar footsteps, on the stairs. The door was thrown open and Rose Faro flung herself into her father's arms.

  'Dear Papa. How are you—' And thrusting aside her bonnet to release a cascade of fair curls, she was suddenly aware that they were not alone.

  Lachlan Brown moved out of the shadows.

  'You!—' Rose stared at him and a moment later laughed delightedly as he rushed forward and seized her hands.

  'This is wonderful—I can't believe it—' said Lachlan.

  As the two young people stared at each other with astonishment and delight, Faro announced, 'This is my daughter Rose.’

  Chapter 6

  The young couple hardly heeded Faro's introduction.

  Still holding Rose's hand, Lachlan looked across at Faro: 'Yes of course, now I do see a resemblance.'

  'You have met before?' Faro's polite question was by now somewhat superfluous.

  'We have indeed,' said Lachlan warmly. 'So this young lady is your daughter—Rose. Rose,' he repeated, smiling as if the name pleased him. Turning again to Faro, he said, 'Forgive me, I really must leave. I'm already late—' And to Rose, 'May I see you again? Now that I've found you?' he added gently.

  She smiled. 'Of course. I'll be here with Papa until the end of the week.'

  Lachlan bowed over her hand. 'Dinner is out for me, I'm afraid. But lunch at the Café Royal, perhaps?'

  'That would be lovely.'

  Lachlan smiled ruefully. 'Where I was brought up, dinner was the midday meal, but here in Edinburgh it's de rigueur to call it luncheon.'

  Rose laughed. 'It's the same in Orkney. Breakfast, dinner and supper. No one's heard of luncheons yet!'

  They had forgotten Faro whose mind wrestled with a fast-moving kaleidoscope of thoughts, none of which gave him any cause for complacency. It was obvious that the two were very attracted. At one time he would have welcomed Rose's distraction from Danny McQuinn, especially for a concert pianist and composer, a cultured young man with a great future.

  But with one of fate's little ironies, Rose had been presented with the one man she might never marry.

  'A very pleasant young man,' he said as the front door closed and he wondered what bitter destiny had brought them together.

  Rose was eager to tell him. 'He is so nice. I'm glad you think so too, Papa.' So his suspicions were correct.

  'I've heard him play. He's very talented, you know. Did you meet at one of his concerts?'

  Rose smiled. 'Goodness, no. We met on the Aberdeen train for Glasgow. I’d spent Easter at Orkney, as you know, with Gran and Emmy. The boat was late disembarking and I had only about ten minutes to get from dock to railway station. Naturally there wasn't a carriage in sight. I took to my heels and the guard had blown his whistle when I raced on to the platform. Someone—Lachlan—threw open the door, stretched out a hand—but just then the strap on my luggage broke. You know what I'm like when it comes to packing. Well, everything spilled out on to the platform. I was so embarrassed. Books papers—clothes everywhere.

  'But Lachlan took charge of the situation, leaped out, commanded the guard to hold the train, gathered up all my belongings and bundled me into his carriage. I was very grateful. He was so charming and we talked all the way to Glasgow.'

  She paused for breath, her eyes shining, remembering.

  'Without any exchange of names, I take it?' said Faro. 'There seemed no need as we were fellow travellers, together for an hour and unlikely ever to meet again. Talk of Aberdeen led to Deeside and that he had been brought up there. I said I went there for holidays long ago. You know how it is, Papa,' she added dreamily, 'how you can meet a complete stranger and within minutes be telling him the story of your life.

  'It wasn't until the train pulled into the station at Glasgow and I saw people rushing forward to greet him on the platform, I guessed he was someone of importance. So I quietly disappeared. And then I read in the newspapers about his background, the scandal about being Brown's illegitimate son, and I realized that I had been travelling with Lachlan Brown, the famous concert pianist.'

  She made a face. 'He mentioned vaguely that he played the piano and to my everlasting shame I remembered saying how interesting, so do I! Wasn't that awful! Anyway, I never expected to see him again—and now this, finding him in my father's study. I can hardly believe it. Is he a friend of yours?' she added eagerly.

  'Hardly, although I greatly admire his playing. He was just bringing me greetings from old friends at Crathie,' Faro lied cheerfully. Rose would hardly appreciate that her rescuer was being used as target practice for some maniac with a rifle.

  'I am so pleased,' said Rose. 'Makes it a lot easier doesn't it, for us to meet when he is, well, almost a friend of the family. And talking of family, where are Vince and Olivia?'

  ‘Vince is visiting sick patients and Olivia busy with one of her charities, I expect. She is involved in so many good works, I've lost count.'

  Rose laughed. 'She is wise to enjoy them while she may, I'm afraid babies will change all that.' Pausing, she glanced round the study. 'Nothing ever really changes in Sheridan Place. It's good to know that home stays the same. Is Mrs Brook reconciled to sharing her domain with Olivia's maid? I haven't met her so far...'

  Faro put his finger to his lips. 'You'd better ask her yourself,' he whispered as footsteps outside the door announced Mrs Brook's arrival and for the next few moments he witnessed a great deal of hug
ging and laughter between the normally reserved housekeeper and the girl to whom she was completely devoted.

  At last pausing to draw breath, Mrs Brook smoothed down her pinafore and her hair and gave Faro an embarrassed smile. 'I didn't hear the front door close, sir, and I wondered how many there would be for tea.'

  'Just ourselves, dear Mrs Brook,' said Rose.

  ‘Very well.'

  Rose held the door open for her and with a backward glance at her father said, 'I'll come with you.'

  Faro's guess that this was curiosity to meet the maid was confirmed when Rose arrived with the tea tray.

  'Have you taken over Mrs Brook's duties?'

  Rose laughed. 'I insisted, Papa.'

  'This is the brink of a new era indeed.'

  She shook her head. 'That poor lass. To be so afflicted. I felt heartily sorry for her. And I get the feeling that Mrs Brook doesn't like her much.'

  'Indeed? What did she say to you?'

  Rose smiled ruefully. 'Mrs Brook doesn't need to say a word. She can convey a whole dictionary of disapproval in one small sniff and toss of her head! I don't think it's personal, she just dislikes this intrusion in her domain. As I was leaving the kitchen, the girl staggered in with a load of shopping. Such a tragic face. You can tell she's had a hard life and suffered a lot. As if she's still having difficulties keeping all her nightmares at bay.'

  'Nightmares?' Faro queried.

  Rose shrugged. 'Her terrible childhood experiences are written all over her face. I was amazed at how young she is. Not much older than me, but she looks nearer thirty than twenty. Don't you think so?'

  Faro had to confess that he hadn't noticed. He observed little of what took place in the kitchen regions of his house. As long as his meals were on hand when he wanted them, his laundry cared for and his bed made—and most important, his study left untouched by duster or polish—he was well satisfied. When he met the girl she was either very shy or afraid of him; like a forest creature she was poised for instant flight. Now he took evasive action, merely nodding and wishing her good day.