Murder by Appointment: Inspector Faro No.10 Page 4

  'Olivia's told me about the fire that killed all the poor girl's family,' said Rose. 'She must have been in that orphanage a long time before she went to Aunt Gilchrist.'

  'I don't know any of the details,' Faro said and Rose's glance made him ashamed. A champion of the underprivileged human or animal, she had been so obviously moved by the plight of the dumb servant and, without saying a word, conveyed to her father that he should make it his business to find out and take a great deal more interest in those less fortunate members of society who sheltered beneath his roof.

  He patted her hand. 'I'm sure she's well cared for. Olivia is responsible for her and she's a very caring person.'

  Rose sighed. ‘You're right, of course, you are.' She smiled and returned again to the exciting news of her sister Emily's forthcoming marriage.

  Watching Rose as she tackled Mrs Brook's afternoon tea with its sandwiches, Dundee cake and scones, Faro decided she was a sight to refresh and delight any eyes: the fair curls clustered modishly around her forehead, the deep blue eyes with long dark eyelashes, short nose, full mouth and healthy complexion—although he was not quite so sure about the fashionably elegant curves of a corseted figure for one so young.

  Nor could he credit the resemblance that Lachlan had observed. Rose was truly Vince's sister and grew more like her mother every day. She had inherited his own Viking colouring and he liked to think some of his better qualities, but what delighted him most was her look of his dear Lizzie who would never be dead as long as Rose lived.

  As for Lachlan Brown. He was definitely Inga St Ola's son.

  Rose's first day at home passed happily, reunited with Vince and the sister-in-law with whom she had much in common. Faro was delighted that he was able to spend the evening with his family as they talked and played cards and Rose's sweet voice accompanied Olivia's playing of the pianoforte she had brought from her old home.

  When at last the lamps were put out and the house was in darkness, he drew his curtains against the night. Moonlight touched the garden and beyond it a ring of bright stars crowned the lofty heights of Arthur's Seat, leaning like a lion couchant against the horizon.

  Faro sighed as he settled down to sleep and thought with envy of men like himself all over Edinburgh whose destiny lay in uneventful lives in banks and offices and who came home each night to suppertime where a rare evening such as he had enjoyed was a commonplace event.

  Breakfast was a meal Faro had seldom shared with Vince before his marriage. Neither man was at his best at seven in the morning, both finding it difficult to be sociable. Of necessity Vince's habits had changed with marriage and now, by tacit agreement, he and Olivia breakfasted in the dining room waited upon by Mrs Brook, whose first duty was to bring a tray to Faro's study.

  As Faro was having his second cup of tea, Rose looked round the door. 'May I disturb you, Papa? No, I've eaten already, thank you,' she added as she kissed him. 'See what the postman brought me!'

  Lachlan Brown had been good to his word and the envelope she thrust before Faro contained a ticket for his concert with a short note inviting her to a supper party with some friends afterwards.

  Rose's face glowed with pleasure and excitement. Misreading her father's anxious expression, she said, 'Perhaps you would like to come with me. I'm sure Lachlan wouldn't mind. Or would you be bored?'

  'Bored with music? Never, lass. And if Lachlan had wished me to accompany you, then he would have sent another ticket. However, I'll take you to the theatre.'

  He had a very good reason for so doing. He wished to inspect the lintel of the Assembly Rooms door which Lachlan claimed had been splintered by the rifle bullet.

  As he escorted Rose up the front steps the mark, which had passed presumably unnoticed by the caretaker, was clearly visible more than a foot above his head. Whoever had fired the bullet had severely misjudged his target, considering that Lachlan, like Faro, stood a little over six foot in height

  That fact gave Faro some thought as to the significance of the apparent attack.

  Misjudged. Or merely a warning?

  Chapter 7

  Faro set off for the Central Office next morning, faced with an unpleasant duty: a further visit to the mortuary, where he hoped that his growing suspicions would prove incorrect and that the dead woman had been removed by grieving relatives or friends.

  She had not.

  And she was not alone. The trestle alongside was occupied by the corpse of an elderly man, the sheet being replaced by Dr Nichols who had just completed his examination.

  'Brought in this morning, Faro. Constable Thomas has all the details.' The doctor looked up briefly 'Another case for you, I'm afraid.'

  'Indeed?'

  'Died within the last twenty-four hours. An attempt has been made to suggest that he had died in his bed, perhaps of natural causes such as cardiac arrest.'

  'What do you mean—"an attempt has been made"?'

  In reply Nichols removed the sheet and invited Faro to inspect the man's skull. 'See for yourself. He was hit very hard on the back of the head. The second fractured skull we've had in this week,' he added grimly nodding towards the woman's body. 'Seems catching.'

  And but for the grace of God, as Faro knew his mother would say, it might well have been three. Himself included.

  'Any identification?' Faro asked Thomas who had appeared at the door where he was disposed to linger. His wary glance towards the two bodies indicated that he shared his superior officer's distaste for mortuary visits.

  Keeping his distance, he took out a notebook. 'Found in a lodging house in Weighman's Close, sir.'

  Faro knew the area off Leith Walk, poor and squalid, a shilling a week would provide a roof over a man's head and little more.

  'He's a Mr Glen, according to the landlady. That's all she knew about him, or was willing to tell him. Except that he wasn't from these parts—from up north somewhere, she believed.'

  As Thomas spoke, the doctor's assistant produced brown-paper bag and shook out a pathetic bundle of worn and none-too-clean clothes, patched and darned.

  'This is what he was wearing, sir. Looks like an old beggarman.'

  Faro was studying the man's face intently.

  'A moment, Doctor, if you please.'

  Removing the sheet from the dead woman's face, he remembered that her accent had been familiar and Lachlan Brown's talk of Glen Gairn had jogged a further chord of memory.

  Turning to Dr Nichols, he asked, 'Look at these two. Tell me, do you see a remarkable resemblance between them?'

  The doctor glanced over Faro's shoulder. 'In what way?'

  'Could they possibly be related?'

  Dr Nichols shook his head. 'All corpses look alike to me, I'm afraid.' His slightly exasperated tone suggested that Detective Inspector Faro was being more eccentric than usual and that his hopes of a nice tidy disposal of the two corpses in the direction of his medical students was doomed to failure.

  Faro motioned to the constable, who came forward reluctantly. After a careful scrutiny, eager to oblige, he said, 'You might be right, sir. They do look a bit alike. Same sort of bone structure. The woman looks younger, though there's probably not much in it. Another murder on our hands, sir?'

  As they approached Weighman's Close by way of the quayside, the crews of two ships moored alongside were the target of good-natured catcalls from the fishermen unloading their catches to a screaming accompaniment of seabirds.

  The Royal Solent, a handsome yacht, bound for the Isle of Wight, was frequently used by members of the Queen's entourage or visitors to Balmoral who could afford the luxury of a more congenial means of reaching Osborne House than the tortuous rail journey to the south coast of England, followed by a short but often unpleasant crossing of the Solent.

  The second ship was the Erin Star, sailing between Edinburgh and Rosslare, for wealthy passengers of a similar disposition to those on the Royal Solent, who, anxious to avoid a journey by train and the notorious Irish Sea crossing, wished to enjoy a
voyage—good weather permitting—to Southern Ireland in relative comfort.

  Faro remembered that one of Constable Thomas's recent tasks had been to arrest a stowaway who was carrying with him the proceeds of an Edinburgh jewel robbery. It had been one of the constable's first cases undertaken alone.

  'You did very well on that one,' said Faro, nodding towards the ship. 'From what I read in the report, you showed considerable initiative—and courage. Well done, Constable.'

  'Thank you, sir.' Thomas beamed. 'But I did have a bit of luck too and good timing, coming by the information unexpectedly!' he added modestly.

  Earnest and ambitious, Thomas was new enough to the job to welcome exchanging the dull and mostly sordid daily routine for the possible excitement of a murder hunt, as Faro discovered when he enthusiastically led the way into the lodging house.

  'I found the dead man upstairs in a back room face downwards on the floor, sir, and he didn't look to me like a man who had died of a bad heart. I know, sir. I've had some experience of heart attacks. I was with my grandfather when he died,' he added triumphantly as they ran upstairs. On the landing he turned to Faro and said, 'And the motive couldn't have been robbery.'

  'What makes you so sure of that?'

  Thomas laughed. 'You'll soon see for yourself. Nothing worth the stealing. Wait till you see the hole he lived in, he added, opening the door of a bleak impersonal room furnished with the transient characteristics of most cheap lodgings in the city. A rickety looking bed with patched thin cover held pride of place beside a broken wooden chair, and a tin cup and saucer on a derelict washstand.

  Faro felt disgusted that anyone paid money for what was little more than a prison cell, especially when he opened the wall press. The empty shelves were covered with dirt and stains accumulated over the years by many former tenants plus a strong suggestion that its present ones were of the rodent variety.

  At his side Thomas sniffed the air. 'God, sir, even the mice must have a lean time existing here.'

  The sorry condition of the man who had drawn his last breath in the squalid room was confirmed by a complete absence of possessions of any kind.

  'Looks like he was in a hurry, sir. No intentions of staying any longer than whatever his dubious business dictated,' said Thomas.

  Faro nodded. This was the kind of room he associated with criminals on the run. He regarded the constable with approval. Here was a young policeman who caught on fast. He would go far, he decided, watching him examine the window, which rattled in the ill-fitting frame while a piercing draught issued from the direction of the Firth of Forth.

  'That's how whoever topped him got in, sir.'

  About three feet below the sill, a washhouse roof and a drainpipe would have presented little difficulty of access to a determined murderer.

  'It could have had benefits both ways,' he told Thomas. 'For a criminal on the run, as well as a killer. Look—' he pointed to the broken lock. The sash window opened with a minimum of effort. ‘We had better speak to the landlady.'

  But she was already hot on their heels, panting up the stairs, demanding to know who they were and what they were doing wandering about a respectable house without permission.

  As Thomas stepped forward from behind Faro, she was somewhat mollified by the familiar sight of the policeman's uniform, for this was the same constable who had arrived on the scene when she rushed out screaming for help, yelling that there was a dead man in her house.

  When the man in plain clothes was introduced as Chief Inspector Faro, her aggressive manner vanished and, anxious to placate them and make a good impression, she suggested they adjourn downstairs to her own premises.

  Faro was surprised after the sordid scene he had left upstairs to find himself in a well-furnished spacious parlour where nothing had been spared for personal comfort in the way of cushions, highly padded sofas and a good burning fire.

  A locked glass cabinet carried the usual insignia of the Edinburgh middle class, china ornaments, crystal and silver.

  Mrs Carling was also well furnished with jewellery and as well upholstered as her velvet sofas, her frizzled hair a shade of red that nature had never invented. She obviously did well out of her poor lodgers, thought Faro, as she invited the policemen to a glass of wine, which they refused. The gesture made, she sat down opposite and addressed them in sepulchral tones.

  'That this should happen in my house. It is quite unbelievable—poor Mr Carling must be turning in his grave—'

  As Faro listened he had a feeling that such tragedies among the poor who rented her rooms upstairs were perhaps not all that infrequent and that poor Mr Carling's eternal rest might often be so disturbed.

  She was at pains to emphasize that she ran a respectable boarding house for impoverished gentlemen and Faro could no longer restrain his impatience with the self-righteous monologue as she stressed her virtuous tolerance and warm humanity. She was not pleased to be cut short by Faro's sharp questions concerning the deceased.

  'Mr Glen came to us three weeks ago. He lived very quietly—'

  'I understand he was not from these parts—' 'That is correct. From somewhere up north, he was.' 'Then what was he doing here? Did he have a job?' Mrs Carling bristled at that. 'He did not have an occupation that I was aware of.' She sat straight 'I don't enquire about my gentlemen's business. That is their own affair. As long as they pay their rent regular and behave with decorum—'

  'Criminals often pay their rent and behave with decorum.'

  'I'm very particular about my gentlemen.' Her voice was heavy with outrage. 'Mr Glen was a very reserved, quiet boarder. Otherwise I would have sent him packing. There now.'

  She paused to eye the constable sternly and her gaze drifted towards Faro, conveying the unmistakable impression that the pair of them might well not have met her high standards.

  'I trust my gentlemen implicitly. They have their own keys and the staircase is used by all of them.'

  'So you wouldn't be aware if Mr Glen had any visitors last night?'

  Visitors are strongly discouraged, Inspector,' Mrs Carling said stiffly. 'This is a respectable house,' she repeated.

  Discouragement was hardly needed, for why anyone should find comfort or welcome in visiting such a room as the late Mr Glen had occupied was something Faro would have enjoyed debating at some length. 'Did anyone call on him during his tenancy with you?' The woman's face shadowed. 'There was one woman— earlier this week. She looked about the same age as himself, on the elderly side. But she was tidy, neat, respectable-looking, well spoken. I wouldn't have let the other kind across my threshold,' she added sternly.

  'Be good enough to define respectable-looking?'

  Mrs Carling shrugged. 'She looked like she had fallen on bad times, they both did, come to that. I'd have put her down as a maid in upper-class service, or a shop assistant. You meet a lot of her kind in Princes Street every day of the week—'

  Before she could go off at a further tangent, Faro asked, 'And how long did this visitor stay?'

  'A while. She was very agitated, upset. I was cleaning the staircase,' she added, shamelessly aware that she had been overcome with curiosity about the woman. 'I heard their voices raised. Arguing, perhaps. Money, most likely.'

  'Money? What made you think it was money?'

  'I heard her saying something like it was too little and that they should get more for it. Whatever it was, he told her to keep her voice down and that he wouldn't give it to her. Said it was too valuable.'

  Faro looked at the woman with grudging admiration for her tenacious eavesdropping.

  'It certainly wasn't a lovers' tiff, that's for sure,' she continued. 'They just weren't the type for such goings on.'

  'Indeed?'

  Mrs Carling laughed. 'Oh, yes, indeed. I've had plenty of elopers and absconding husbands and wives meeting illicit lovers in my time. I can spot them right away, I can assure you.'

  'So you think there was a disagreement about money?'

  'Oh yes,
indeed. You see, I asked for my rent a month in advance. Cheap at the price, it is. There is a splendid view of the Castle from that particular room. One of the best in the house.'

  Faro shuddered. God help the others then, he thought as she continued.

  'Mr Glen hinted that he didn't have a situation at present. Kept himself very much to himself, as I've said,' she added regretfully. 'However I got the distinct impression that, like the woman who visited him, he might have been an upper servant at one time.'

  'Indeed? How did you reach that conclusion?'

  'Well, I've been in high service myself, before I married Mr Carling, that was. I don't mind admitting it. But I always kept myself respectable,' she added proudly. 'That's how I got where I am today—'

  'You were telling us about Mr Glen,' Faro reminded her.

  'He asked a lot of questions about servants' conditions, what wages they got and so forth, over there—in the New Town,' she added, pointing in the direction of Georgian Edinburgh.

  'And when did you last see Mr Glen?'

  'Since he was behind with his rent and due to pay another month in advance, he was very keen to avoid me on his way in and out. But I heard him come in on Tuesday night and I was ready and waiting for him. He said he had no money. When I asked what he intended doing about it, he had the nerve to offer me a jacket in lieu of payment—'

  'A jacket?'

  'Aye, a new jacket. Never worn, he said. I didn't like the idea, a man's jacket. Well, he might have stolen it. Especially when I saw it—'

  Faro thought rapidly. 'May I see this jacket, if you please?'

  'If you want.' She left them to return holding the garment before her. 'See for yourself,' she said proudly. 'As I said, I wasn't keen at first but it's good quality, clean and warm. And I realized it would be just the thing for my lad when he's a bit older—'

  The jacket was bright red with yellow checks.

  Faro held out his hand and, almost reluctantly, she handed it over, watched him suspiciously as he inspected the lining. As if to confirm his suspicions, a label read: 'Chicago Textile Mills. United States of America.'